Picked up our bones from the ghosts,
leaves still red, a moment in time
where we are building you and I, the bird
and the dog, the peach and the plum:
we sigh, we swoon, we blow kisses to the moon.
There are worlds in our mouths aching
alive, dreams of something sentimental
something sweet, something sugary
to get stuck in between our teeth, mumbling
we drift into dreams.
Flutter on, flushed by, found by impossibilities
growing in our gardens.
Glow soft, soul. Glow sound, soul.
I pinky-swear, we have