My friends

I like the way your face looks lit up from underneath by the neon light of the tap,
every little glittery yellow star in the dark room reflected in your beer, the panes of the windows circling, waving, wiggling when you wave your glass.

I have eaten a lemon cake with strings in my ears, resonant sliding and wind stretching the skin between my ribs--

for months when I was a kid I dreamed only of flying practice -- a bright green grassy hill, a blue sky like a default desktop background. The wind is harsh and whipping, my T-shirt some kind of parachute-- l spread my arms out and wait and breathe, feel it could happen on any exhale, l will be sucked up into the air and whirled around on a jet stream.

l become conscious that l'm doing it and then I try too hard; I get frustrated and wake up.

When I hear crickets I think about chasing fireflies and catching them on our hands,  ordinary bugs brown and sweet and harmless, crawling over our fingers, letting them fly off. Watching our steps in the wet grass. I would sleep with my head on your shoulder, but then where would yours go? I picture our hard skulls phasing through each others', our hair tangling together.

I forget I'm full of water until I see you again.