remember that day

the air felt like sweat and our skin crawled
a thousand little ladybugs
at the breeze of the fan,
and the tips of your curls
flustered, harassed.
my tongue congealed to teeth
thick and clumsy and oppressive
like that June day.

the leather couch, polyestered
burrowed between biographies: chinese concubines
and bill clinton.
hummed of a thousand other bodies.
spirits carved into wilting wrinkles,
the parted lips of cushions.
ghosts whose melody was like gnashing teeth
or watery lullabies.

we lazed, our breath salty sweet aftertaste
sloping arms and legs and condensation
as if we would melt right into the air
grounded only by tickled skin

then,
somewhere between perspiration and respiration
my knee kissed your fingertips
and the ladybugs fell away.