I didn’t know your name. My breasts were yet to bloom. Summer laid shivering silver under the doormat. The code was dengue.
Conviction is our neighbor’s moth. Months of mango have long since desiccated on solar opals. Discussions drip greasy contraltos. Everyone reflects in degrees of chlorine now. Everyone but me. The night you had caught my eyes, I had caught fire.
Under the bed, I sat hunched with a biology book. I had failed maths. And menstruation, too.
I didn’t know your name. So I assigned you hieroglyphs. Late one noon, one of their anthers dehisced. I knew your pheromones by heart. I knew how they hammered me inside out. The underside of my flesh is still the color of liver-blood.
Your eyes would never travel south. Indifference had begun to sprout buds of rebellion. At 15, I was a battlefield.
I forget the season of gold mist. I forget the hour she baptised me. Tides swim awkwardly as I fantasise your mouth in mine. The air is metal. I taste radioactivity. You draw paisleys on a square inch of skin. You draw till seismology is a one word song.
Time will condense to a magnolia of ether-moon. My constellation has assumed your name.