Maybe my hands are smoky,
fingers count one, two, burn-pull
or just your breath hanging in midair,
words crystallizing between us, floating
out a frosted window from your teeth.
waterfire. a gushing sound approaches
my brush, painting hair out of my eyes again
green forehead, green eyes.
they are balloons of light, coloured with melodies.
I must use my twitching, twisted phylanges to birth them to this plane
so I am not the only one who believes in them.