rubbing bellies run
out of ideas, our
brandished eyes,
breathing air, makes
me dry-tongued.
You so soon become
more like hot tea, like
tickled toes curled up,
slipped away as if to say,
I should wait for you
to break out, come closer.
I want you because
your eyes tell me your
mouth is a shaken bottle.
If I open it, you
will rearrange me.
