With her head on my shoulder, I die. I become a corpse, cheery
plank
ice sculpture
around which she joyfully dances, spinning on the balls of her feet,
pointe shoe
prop
the purple fabric of her dress swirling around her in an absurd raincloud.
In private,
(together)
proudly, she plans to be a ballet dancer, professional basketball player, my girlfriend, an astronaut
(impossible.)
Alone, she believes she is all of them and more,
but settles with me for just gymnast, tumbling around my body
scuffed gymnasium floor
trampoline
rattling jungle gym
and I keep smiling, keep my arm around her wherever she goes.
You feel cold,
corpse
plank
ice sculpture
she comments and tucks a blanket around my hips. Stop being so textbook anatomy,
rigor mortis
heart disease
she urges. Stop being so constructed,
scuffed gymnasium floor
trampoline
rattling jungle gym
she begs.
She presses her lips to my lips
sour candy
lollipop
corpse
and her hand to my hand
prop
pointe shoe
and her hips into my hips
half-deflated balloon
still flies.