Sunday afternoon, gulping down the conversation

as if we’re in a heatwave and you are cooled water.

When I cross over do I become you? My breath

is sensitive, like photons, and I am lost in space

between where you end and I begin. As if we return

to ourselves after we are loved. We are forever

killing the things we find sweetest, like freshly

picked cherries and Sunday afternoons. When I cross

back do I lose you? If it were winter, things would

be different. There is no tethering chord for the next

few moments. Think of all the undiscovered planets,

casually dying from overheating. Fault lines create

opposition far too easily. The black cherries will never

be eaten. Swallow into night, and be done with it.