Red Card

because a few grains of hourglass sand were replaced with
some dreamy idea, and it just couldn't possibly be-
we, we, we-

They say there's no such thing as perfection
(but after this, I do question)
before you slightly scrunch your gaze
to study my face
as the wheels are turning,
my internal coal-fires burning,
learning that a phoenix I once thought to be dead,
still had more fight instead.
There was no way that I'd forget that instance:
The polarization of a long distance,
the sudden slam of magnets and split-second follow
of understanding that underneath the broad of your chest,
you're not hollow;
even the phoenix of you, once thought to be dead,
still had more flight too, instead.

No, there's no way that I'd forget that moment,
I couldn't get you out of my head,
smack, smack, smacking dough and sending it through the sheeter,
spread, spread, spreading the rest into a pan,
lost in labored repetition-
can, can, can
we, we, we-

And then, I remember the first time we touched;
I, a high tide before receding-
I, terrified,
being beyond the point of mere presence,
but channeling a passion through my lips,
admiring your body with my fingertips-
and not even minding your vodka-stained sighs.
As if no one else were in the room, my eyes,
my eyes only on you.
My lips my hands and now my heart only on
you.