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.