Molten

You wake up in your blue walls. Cold, I imagine. Your nipples hard, not from frigidness, but because they’re usually sensitive. I’m not sure what you do when you wake up in your mother’s house. I’ve never been there. Maybe it’s feet first on the ground. Maybe you stretch. Maybe you run to the shower (just like I do). 

I imagine you putting your layers on. Maybe wrap that scarf I sprayed over your neck. You step outside, walk down the stairs to the street. Don’t you hate the cold? Walk to the bus, bus to the train. To class, but wait, you don’t teach dance to children like you used to. Traveling underground to teach something else - always teaching.

I imagine you. On the bus. A soft skin against a solid window. You might see someone you know. I imagine the scent has faded from your scarf, by now.

Looking at metropolis cement. Our darkness turning into cement. The only chord connecting us is the chord of flowers I see each morning. I imagine you don’t always see flowers. For you- things change - an almost constant steadiness of different scenery. For me the only indication that spring has come, are the purple flowers that surrender to gravity. 

Molten in me still are your constant changes. My dear - do you smell me on your scarf?

The only wind I feel, resembles your touch. 

If I become a stranger -

Will you still love me again?