I fell in love
with a man who eats clouds
with a spoon carved from rainbows.
“They’re tart,” he says,
“but good for digesting dreams.”
His shoes splash through feelings
as if they were puddles;
deliberate,
to spray.
He told me:
“I don’t like women who ask where I’ve been.”
When I stayed quiet,
he sneered: “Why so silent?
You’re boring.”
In his hair, a swallow, stuck.
In his pocket, a toothpick for sunsets.
He was the window I opened when it rained,
so the day would not spoil.
He bit into my heart
like an apple from the market.
“Not bad,” he said,
“but still ripening.”
And then he went to dance
with the old North Star,
crushing constellations
across the floor.