The shuffling of your black Nikes 

is what I want first, swiftly followed

by each individual crack of your knuckles;

the fumbling of your tongue against

the walls of your mouth; the hushed

secrets in my ear, which are humid

and remind me to practice holding my breath

in a 100-degree hot tub in the midst of summer.

Next, give me your left headphone:

douse me in the warped tonality

of Vera Lynn’s voice and I’ll press the speaker

to my earlobe and become overwhelmed

by the vibrations, which feel like my cat

sidling up next to me in front of a dying

bonfire. Can you hum the national anthem

as I press my reborn eardrum to your chest?

Teach me how to be proud of my country

again. I want to close the front door

thirty-four times, let my anxiety

chill until it is below zero; I welcome

the sensation of an ice cube sliding down

my spine: I am safe within my home.

The forecast says it is going to rain at 5 pm;

we need to lie in the middle of the street

and let ourselves be baptized by Mother Nature’s

preferred lullaby. If a car runs us over,

the breakage of our ribs will become a marimba duet.

Do you have any saltwater taffy? We must

let saliva meet the roofs of our mouths:

the world’s smallest oceans breaking against

the shores of our taste buds. I must impulse buy

tickets for tonight’s concert in Orlando; all

that I need now is to scream out the lyrics to our song,

and know that I’m in the right key.