Volcan justwrite

I slice the water and watch you struggle, lightning bugs against lightning above fire breaking apart, shedding my skin while you skin fruit I can't pronounce and I eat all the seeds because I've never had it any other way, trusting your count of stairs but feeling like it's not enough. Your eyes are the color of the pool under a waterfall in the rainforest, the vines hanging as gracefully as your fingers, and we met in a garden where the leaves came to life, painters dabbing patterns onto the backs of beetles and watching their legs scratching poetry onto a poor man's umbrella. The iguanas I chase down the path call to each other and ignore our mimicry, my feet black like a volcano's tears forty years later, bones hung in concrete and within rock where water sounds like unforgiving men on our balcony, their music serenading us as you talk about movies from the past and water that needs a bit more gravity. The sun nods and we lose time, your rain dance working almost as soon as mine, my arms moving so fast they're invisible if I close my eyes. I had sex on the hot spring, which seems like an impossible memory, and I was birthed again into a steaming sea, the air harder than I remember, and I fell into the arms of strangers but really had no choice. We shout to each other in languages nobody can understand but the butterflies, one tapping codes against Kayla's hand with its tongue... no... its proboscis. Gold coins fall into my pockets and there is a song that never stops, a fruit like a baby so I watch you cradle it for hours before we sip and slurp its existence into our souls. Your irises reflect anonymous flowers and your neck smells like lake. As the water piles around my mind, I see the place where the trees began to grow again.