They don’t tell you that the line
between love and war is only
a line segment, beyond which
they spill over and merge into one.

We are bullet holes in the clouds
through which the sky bleeds azure
into the midsummer outlines
of a monochromatic town.

At night, we are a hurricane
of chaos and dark matter.
Six autumns ago, painted wings
fluttered quietly in my stomach.

My name tastes foreign on my tongue
but yours is chocolate liquor lined,
as are your kisses, and I
like it when you call my name.