she leans in like
laughter; their hands
link, twine. it’s not
yet but the cruel
cusp of april, and she
yearns
for fire-rimmed
decembers.
the way her legs
cross says she
must have stories no-
one knows.
his eyes blaze
like sun-
lit secrets & i wonder
if he’s heard ’em, if
she loves him
that bad.