your tongue
is not a new form of ice
but rather
seeping into mine like a
thin purple snake, saturated
in shallow folds and leftover coffee
and the string
of pineapples and daisies
they have stained your tongue
the color of plums,
and it meets with mine
though my tongue is
so unlike yours,
covered in sunshine
and the wings of faeries,
tiger eyes and gold rubies
singing their songs
as we dance like
birds.
this is a strange world,
with your black beret
perched atop your
raven head like the
simplest of songs
and my hair
dances in the wind,
notes of an invisible
flute surround us
and our tongues
join in foreign agreement
to make a treaty, to forge
within a fire, to touch briefly
before one of us
is burnt to ash of twin skeletons.
this is a strange world indeed.