I.
Your voice sounds like my favorite poem
from a poet that hasn't been born yet
your hands feel like my favorite t-shirt,
slipping into mine like the over worn fabric over my shoulders
and your lips taste like sunshine from the window
in the kitchen and you're my home so please -
don't you ever leave

II.
I stole your library book
fourth period after lunch
flipped through the pages
and started reading
you slipped my your other earbud
and I popped it in my ear
grabbed your hand
and read until the bell rang
because you, yourself are art
and I, the onlooker

III.
Your breath, warm
against my lips is my favorite poem
but the poet hasn't been born yet
when I'm older and so are you
I will wake up to your honey-sweet voice
unless it's me waking you up
with my carmax lips and messy hair
but for now I will sneak you kisses in the snow
with my back up against the garage door
and yours to the recycling bins
smiling against your lips,
catching my breath and
falling in love with being alive
the world is beautiful when I'm with you

IV.
sage smoke drifting from their mouths
six feet tall with broken bloody wings
backs up against the gas station's back wall
like the alley is all theirs
like the world is all theirs
Archangels smoking something ethereal
getting high on divinity
but your hands on my thighs
and your lips brushing mine
just down the alley from their rotting halos
are worth the whole world
and their purity stained fingers
greedy as they are
will never hold this, nor the world