we sip topo chico with the sun  

drinking us down;  

we are two nomadic seasons, 

unanchored, gliding. 

your t-shirt hangs off your back like 

a heat wave. you, smiling a foreign language,  

imagining what i look like dreaming.  

i'm unrelated to every color except this moment.

elsewhere, there are wars in the name of dialect— 

it’s something we both lose sleep over. but 

the human heart is the bite of a rabid dog. 

before time puts us down, let me just say 

i want you, i hope that’s enough.