Paper Anniversary

Each day we read the morning like a screenplay.  When the air breathes louder than we do,
we improvise. 
 
How many days in a row can you turn the same page without it tearing. Without it cutting
your finger.
 
Consciousness arrives in stages, and I wonder how awake I can get. 
Love is the consciousness of how air caressing your body reminds you of your lover.
 
We can freeze a river by first believing it can freeze, and believing we can thaw it again. 
Repetition is an ideal as lofty as perfection.
 
At what degree will heat burn your finger. At what degree is a flame
tame enough to finally touch.
                        
The thinking our bodies do isn’t all physical.  We pull caution back out of the wind and put
it in our pocket for later. 
 
Your skin on mine is an understanding. Any set of words for this is in a foreign tongue. 
If I say your cheeks are rosy, it should be the flower who is flattered. 

Thinking twice in front of a waterfall, running means many things. Whether we could stop
or not, who would want to. 
 
One year, a tongue licking not only its own lips. A mouth biting not only
its own calloused fingertips. A language of simple kisses we mean.