Being with you feels like time travel
feels like the inside of a coconut,
feels like jet lag on the streets of Nice.
Being with you feels like home,
like burnt toast, like sunday morning,
like a rum and coke hangover.
Being with you feels like an open road,
like radio static, like touching china in an antique store.
Being with you tastes like frozen grapes in July,
tastes like iced coffee,
tastes like afternoon air on your side of town,
tastes like yesterday.
Being with you is like pressing my tongue to battery,
like walking up stream,
like forgetting everything.
Like speaking new languages in dreams.
Being with you is like shadows on the ceiling
like hand puppets,
like baby oil on my back,
like bruises on my hips,
like hair tied so tight,
like hands on my wrists,
and breath in my lungs,
and sweat on your chest,
and like being completely
unlaced and undone.