The day smells like yellow with a hint of blue
and you look like petrichor –
a little misty around the edges
a haze following you
and who am I, I ask,
now the whisky has stopped
obstructing my view
who are we, in this fresh
morning with dew on our lips,
beads of it at the ends of our hair
and who will we turn into after
noon, when the sun is burning loudly
when our eyes can’t block out the noise
and my hands still smell like your voice
I breathe you in
and wonder if your mouth still
feels like how I looked the night before
spongey with alcohol and thirst
stretched with smiles and open, wild
tongue trying to dampen the fuzzy inside
of your cheek, like dew trying to reach
a dandelion seed
