She has teeth
crushing mountains into plains
while he gums at his meat, never getting to the flavor.
She always paints with the brush between her lips.
He’s still painting with his fingers.
Her blood rushes to her face and through her toes.
His pools and ferments.
Tonight they stand on the roof and look out at the city lights.
“It’s all Japanese lanterns from up here,” she says.
He looks down at his feet.
“And,” she says, “the balloons will rise in the morning.”
“and” he says, “don’t wake me.”
