A Wish on a Cheek

again, I am found in conversation with here:
there are cars and there are people
and i wish i was tall so that i could touch all the trees.
but my mind is preoccupied with past thoughts,
with the two elastic years
wrapped around [you i]
so much that raindrops like to draw
the veins of my hands on bus windows.
going home feels like circulation, because
there are no crossroads.
i like listening to houses move
and the road outside be smeared by tyres
that evaporate.
i forget and am reminded; i forget.
there goes the sun down
tickling the back of leaves and the giddy light
catches between my eyelashes.
there is enough slithered through
to twist you upside-down and -up again.
then i have to blink a few times
roll back the film stretched over irises
unstick you from the negative.

the rain hits me in the face.
collects upon it,
a spoonful of dots marking where i have been
your fingertip drawing a constellation.
when you look up, you watch the glow worms
you put there wiggle,
my skin a cave painted by your eyes,
my stalactites a gallery of sculptures your nostrils
chip away at as they hover,
they a pair of twin dragonflies exploring.
they uncover me,
wiggle their wings in salute
making my walls scrunch into curtains
ready to be drawn.

for being a ship and asking for wind for your sails,
for navigating without a map
the crowded hillsides and rough streets
that pass for a city of twenty-two years and some
and for slipping a note to him laying siege
to lay still and look
in the brook with a stream,
under the canopy of now,
i thank you.

he has nails in the woodwork
and it's when one looses that a splinter hits, 
i forget and am reminded by you
that brackets come in pairs,
and without the other, one is left to be
a wish on a cheek.