With you, a bed’s a Petri dish,
culturing watercolor visions
and intricate webs of buzzing
organic matter.

In the night we lay
not in dens of black,
but bathe 
in wispy silver clouds,
billowing from parted lips that kiss
the sun with startling conviction.

We are citrus and hyacinth,
denying the night of its predatory prowl
with the vibrance in our eyes.

We are cliff-edge-dancers
with sloppy footing,
blindfolded and free in our laughter
at certainty;
inflated; elated
as our feet transcend weight
and fall victims to the wind.