by Kati Goldstein

Here we are watching the amaryllis change colors in the living room. Here we are learning to kiss on a dirty wooden floor. Yours was the ninth tongue to enter my mouth but the first to ever taste like a tongue should: not metallic or milky, just like mine, only yours. We are equal parts young & already dead, perfect & all wrong, quartz & aquamarine: we reflect ourselves & everything else & the sky. Here we are weaving each other’s scents into blankets, printing each other’s body parts onto novelty t-shirts. I want to tell you: We can have a bigger garden. I want to tell you: We can have dogs & babies & a silver staircase or we can not. Either way. It’s up to you. I want to tell you: We can make the staircase gold if you want, or platinum. We can make it out of moonstone even. Here you are watching me dry off with your binoculars, or plucking a stray hair from my shoulder.

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