birds can only fly so high.
i want you
five feet under these bent knees and tousled jeans,
on your back, pinned between rough denim,
i'm always on top
babe, i'll ride
alongside this little
notion, the impossibility
of the mount(ains)ed rising
above the "man" who climbs them.
into fragments of
muscle and skin and failed
attempts at seeking out a rational
excuse in your head because your lips
have been found and can no longer wander
as prisoners on this narrow field of skin differences.
incapable, incapacitated, inaudible
from below, tiptoeing so close to the edge
because you are a child seeking permission,
i will drag you through the sand and terrain until
saltwater threatens your cheeks and my name is all
you will say because nothing else is worth remembering.