of rivers and men
i.
your army-green jacket’s sleeves sit awkwardly against the surface of my skin while
its collar peeks around my shivering shoulders

the leather couch smells like leftover fireplace ashes from winter while
the air smells like slow-coming (ambling) spring

after w(h)etting our cheekbones with curiosity, the colorado river sleeps beneath our feet.
rachmaninoff’s weary hunger rolls listlessly around in the hollow between our bodies.

ii.
i’m shaking now, like starlight,
and the ceiling fan can’t keep pace
the mississippi groans of windy wounds
while your fingers trace my shoulder blades

the day is heavy as the steamboat’s shadow drags against your belief that
“good things come in time”

it’s summer in texas.
i’ve learned to ignore this kind of heat.

yet still
your hesitant hands cradle my thighs and we lose our place
somewhere between
the hot blankets and Coldplay’s burning rhymes

tonight, my eyes stay firmly shut against the fury of your lips
there are no question marks in your eyes, and so (willingly)
you never stop to recognize the ones in mine