You draw ten little smiley faces,
two dots and a curve of mouth,
on every finger of my hands,
all matches to the ones on yours.
And then you make their faces touch,
my hands and yours, the tips
of my fingers and yours, and you
catch my eyes and whisper,
tilting your head, “Listen to them.
Listen to them talk about us.”
Your eyes go wide with mock shock,
“They think you’re going to fuck me!”
And afterward every one of mine
and every one of yours are lost,
washed away by their own kisses,
fallen, to their own little deaths.