My spiny stems,
your silk flowers.
My decorative lights,
your gutter of leaves.
My stars, your moon suspended in a sunlit sky
like a ghost
or shy giant from a children's story.

My stars hidden then.

Your stretched-out sweatshirt, my box
of buttons. Your rice,
my beans. Always,
my beans.

You rise, I swirl.
I cinnamon swirl, you sriracha
dance alone, not always
alone.

Your handwriting
spilling out of the pencil
my ink flowing and stopping.

My cork bark, your smooth sides.

Your Alhambra, my wooden pew.
Your blood moon,
my blue.