Irises the color of brut champagne ; whites overflowing with joyful froth every time he  thinks of me. The impact of each bubble giving up the ghost against the nape of my neck like he’s given the lines of it a toast, raising glasses otherwise unseen through undulating waves and twists of hair, so happy I cannot care, love registering, betwixt and between.

That’s why I can’t get away- I’m inebriated, out and inside, escalating incendiary  instances like a bitch at brunch  with my bestie, egged on by the taste of bottomless bellinis his lips are as slick with as he is with his mouth overall-

heaven knows what made me fall and demands i honor it, to the death, or at least the genuine cleft, his heart makes headiness a happenstance that feels good in these sobering times, when things have no reason no rhymes.

Lights up like I’m there, even when I’m not, by God what has this madness wrought and why does it feel so good? What comes from him that demands I ride him, like wood, beyond complexities being accepted, bathed in, danced against and firmly understood?