we are too much for one puddle, you and i.

when we were young in broken coffee table apartments we had a higher survival rate.

the blacktop, bathed in oil and excrement, knew how to hold its drink.

then, we were and i could say if then was now ' we are'

and you would sprout a quizzical look from your flower petal face.

but then is never now and puddles are fleeting under this southern sun.

'we might have been enough for one ocean if we were closer to such a body'.

and your quizzical look remains.

the best i can think is that we are better off without puddles anyway, which we know is and will be a lie even after the dinosaurs come back and humans are buried in tree sap.

in lieu of anything appropriate to say now i will do a head spin, like in that break dancing movie.

and i will spin until my skin evaporates off of my chalky skull and then i will spin faster.

the friction will lessen you see.

and i will make a new puddle and you can rub your flower petal face in it and fill your capillaries with me.

and in this way i will prove that i never knew what to call things. that my labels were never right.

and you will be more beautiful than one person can be.