Peekaboo Mornings

You say
I make you fall in love with words,
but my consonants are becoming garbled.
I'd rather
you fall in love with my breath
and the way it fogs the mirror glass
rather than my acrobatic tongue.

Mr. Cirrus and Mr. Stratus
strain their cumulus ears to hear how we converse
between the hours.
They settle low and stifle the crocus and hyacinth breath
that whispers around me, gossiping with the frost.
I'd scream to them your name,
but the Indiana snow would freeze its meaning
and swallow it whole.
I love you means nothing
if you're only a placeholder for the weather.

Dear, oh dear, God,
take your palette and mix us a tender shade of violet,
of tangerine skies.
Our sweaters on the floor would mingle together,
and the loose threads would braid us
the dawning colors of the morning.
The sun would slowly rise up and peek,
tom,
into my window, peekaboo.
Three's a crowd, but he rests so gently on our skin
that we can't be bothered with him,
the tag-along.

With tobacco
on your tongue
and calluses
on your fingertips,
I can feel clarity in your pulse.
Together, oh no, I can't say...
Possibly, maybe, perhaps, I love you?
I should, I did, how could I…

Cumulus ears with raspy breath,
pistol mouths with honey lies,
they chase and garble true words and meaning,
choking my throat.
Cowardly, we'd flee, to our own corner of the world,
to be our own petty lovers.
Petty as the way two loose threads tangle together
and imitate
the lavender flecks in your eyes.
Too petty.
Too late.