There are words for these things but the words don't matter.

You: slinking in ruby toed barefoot mantras over the floorboards like a cat, knitted beige threads over skin your lineage had married to the warmer months, the long July fires of your arms ignited into motion, sparks trailing in your wake; a quality of realization.

Summertime board games, prank phone calls, speaking anorexia in tongues and eating the night itself, your white lacy curtains wrapped around the air like a wedding dress; I watched you sleepwalk, open the fridge, mumble an apology. I wonder if I am dreaming you perfect.

I remember your tiny kitchen table with its bowl of tiny oranges, everything about you was where small liked to linger. Clothes clung to your body like some foreign kitsch; a fad you never learned to love. The post-it note in your bathroom mirror says "this doesn't matter". And it doesn't, but it's like money-- tasteless yet useful. I want to hate you.

But like clockwork, when I coax magic from the glass, clouds part; my skull blooms like an African violet. Clarity drags her tender tongue up the spine of my inhibition, taps
her glossy language in code, lapping in liquid braille til my belly deciphers, a flurry of invocation caked in my soft little guts:

I would follow her to the ends of the earth.