I've been practicing to kiss the dew of my juices,
off wildflowers growing in your palms,
for some time now.
I've wanted to lick the inner continents of your mouth,
feel the inner chambers you
breathe me open,
just enough,
for a hand to flick the switch of my heart.
I hold my legs in pain,
for the screams of childhood anger are embedded
in my muscular tissue,
(and If I keep writing this Im going to need some tissues)
but I don't want to cry now;
the silver streaked rainfall of the Huangpu knocking at my windows,
dark neon flashes of, golden, green, purple downtown lights
basking in my room.
An ear stays perked for the sudden wind,
a faint hollowed clarinet singing my praise,
out of an old fisherman’s mouth.
Sat for what seems like an eternity,
naked in thick glistening skins,
on my sheepskin,
watching the hazed morning sun stream my body
in a thousand colors,
jasmine flowers circling my drink.
The grain of the image lifting,
pollution levels of AQI 152
(unhealthy levels! wear your masks!)
basking at a higher stratosphere.
22 degrees of conditioned heat,
lazy summers in January.
Now tell me climate change doesn’t exist
I have fractured lungs to prove you wrong.
pic: Mine