Please help me peel back the skin,
bumpy like pores in a teenager's face
or craters on the moon,
which I wear for protection;

And I can teach you to look up
and admire the way the branches reach for the sky
like desert fingers grasping for the tears
that are only a liquid mirage.

I hear the summer and the syrup of your clumsy smile,
which melts even December's misery,
in each dreamed syllable
and every imagined shoulder squeeze.

The smell of such words
whose callused skin is not sure it wants to be broken
surely fills my breaths
and probably this entire room.