Curled solitude:

You are folded

like heads and hands mid-prayer

as you lean into the green

through all your smallness and brevity

taking your time before

time takes you.

What do you do

against the dew?—

slow, fragile decay of heat—

To you,

is it tears, puddle, or ocean?

Is my thirst a place where you drown?

Is my warmth a place where you shiver?

Is my gentleness your violence?

Your mouth:

teeth and jaw, open and hungry—

how do you use it?

Are my confessions your silence?

Are my exhales your feast?

My solitude, my morning dew, my mouth

with you

against green and time—

Is this envy? Tribute? Division? Union?

Are you my antithesis or

are you my mirror?

-Iris