This Is Eve
At the very least, yours is the first mouth.
Yours is the dandelion tongue that scatters me into pasture of blueberry, of apple soft with bite, of wind begging your Icarus heart:
please, let's me and you deliquesce our cold parts.
Let's me and you get caught by the sea every time we fall.
Let's me and you make home inside the tangle-green when you are afraid of the sun. Whom, by the way, I promise to freeze.