You do not yet live & it is possible you never will. Still
I mow the lawn with your name under tongue, the letters pulsing

together like a maraca of bees. I rub the magic 8 ball of my gut
& pretend I am a mother, but the clouds read better luck

next time. I palm the handle of my hatchet & imagine us deep
in the woods by a body of water so green you could dream up

anything, shaving kindling off the years, making memories
we’re bound to forget. I rest the god of my hand on your neck,

silently show you how to blow a small galaxy of wind
between your fingertips, how to turn thin air into energy.

Our best conversations happen on days like this, summer sun
a mirage of itself. Gasoline on my wrists, wondering if you’ll exist.