I still have mud on my
pants from feverish escapades
through maize with you.
Illusions of snowy pavements
black lace
banana French toast.
Damp, sleepless nights
tossing and turning to your face
shadowing
the wonders of my mind.
The curve of your pervasive grin
lurks around red tile corners,
in the sweltering heat of ovens,
bubbling in the sink,
ready to pounce the second weakness bares its crooked face.