in this story, the tabletops are made of gold and we dance across them. that doesn’t mean anything....

in this story, the tabletops are made of gold and we dance across them. that doesn’t mean anything. gold is not gold and you are not you. the clouds wear our footprints, we hang small breathing trees everywhere. nothing is the same but you still hold me by the shoulders and twirl me across your kitchen floor. the sunlight tastes entirely like honey. i lick it off the counters and put my finger to your tongue. you laugh and it rolls out of your mouth and the air is full of exclamations.