My little beta fish

I am not your shimmer

But I did teach you

How to use your teeth

But I did bare mine first

But sleeping into watered ribbons

This is how philosophers have gone

This is how nothing has been born

That's okay

We can sit and drink prosecco

Swim through centuries of conversation

Boil by the fire

I am not in the air

You are not in the air

We are in the air

We rise to the surface

Our fins become Lilly pads

I stem behind your ear

With your dripping pen

With me dripping from your teeth

With your whispers creeping between them


Published at Quail Bell Magazine