A blue sky seems brighter when

a plane glances of a cloud as a raindrop.

This is dangerous, these words we don’t speak.

The songs without titles and the books without chapters.

We’re putting the numbers on the doors.

We’re catching the ash from the fireworks

that fell upon our hands,

held on our heads.

A July day doesn’t fade any

faster than your smile

against the moon,

the same color as your dichotomy eyes;

blue pressed tightly against the white.

Arrested.

As children

we sang

of love.