I like her hands
because they are
her

hands. Small moonlight
basins. Spreads them
along my knee careful; a glass
telescope, a nervous comet.
I think about kissing
her,

and our bodies,
the impatient pull
between swollen
planets and the sun.
My mind lights up,
struck matches
against cans of gasoline.
There are so many
I count them
like they are the last
strawberries on Earth.
Mash them against my
tongue and it
reminds me of
her

lipstick that night.
How the street was still
and cold, and we kissed
by my car, and there were billions
of stars singing above us.
The song was about
her.

It always is.