Airhead Apparatas

Poetry rolls off my tongue like a cloud,

And full of clouds I am-

Airhead.

My whole world is a sky.

Inhaling thick smoke,

choking,

exhaling milk.

Ink in my veins,

smudged on my thumbs,

blackening my tears,

staining my skin.

It rubs off on her,

Leaving etches on her neck.

Her body is a story.

Her flesh is poetry,

Rolling off my tongue.

Now my head is full of her.

Her smile is an artist

Greater than I’ll ever be.

Her lips are graphite;

Her fingertips are paint.

Apparatas, am I,

Stage, even,

Rolling off her tongue like a cloud.