Tonight we’re both stoned so we move our comforters
and down pillows out to the rooftop, dangle our legs over the edge as
we smoke cigarettes down to their ashes, their last dying breaths,
sharp red moon lighting up your face, the golden mess of your hair.
Another hour to kill. What we feel now could be pressed into amber
like an insect and perfectly preserved three thousand years from now,
when your grandchildren unwrap what happened here tonight.
It started out with too much to drink and progressed
to my head on your belly, listening to the ocean inside,
the jellyfish swishing their clear tentacles through your ears,
and ended with our tongues meeting like nervous strangers.
Here, the people below us look like ants.
We lie flat against one another like sardines,
the soft curve of your breasts resting against my cheek,
my palms exploring your shoulders.
I open the stars like a gift and fill your mouth with them.
Under my hands, your body feels like my own.
Familiar, used, an old parka worn in Minnesota winters.
Two weeks later we pass one another in the hallway
at school, and do that thing we do-
the one where we both try to look away at the same time,
but accidentally brush one anothers’ hands
on our way past.
You, the one I knew best of all.
The kiss we shared together now safe inside my stomach,
buried deep down, warm like a swallowed raisin,
the back of your neck in class
the only part of you open to me now.