Neon bleeds like watercolor on the boulevard
I leave cigarette ash shaped like a question on his palm
I fold my words into paper boats and set them in his bath—
they float away like little lanterns he doesn’t watch
I hum a warning under my breath soft as a cigarette end
he thinks it’s a lullaby and breathes me in anyway
The room plays a saxophone that winks in minor keys
I press my thumb against the seam where truth is stitched—
it’s barely taut it frays—he smiles and says “We’re fine ”
Why is he so naive
He reads the sun and misses the tide
Why is he so naive
He calls the siren pretty and dances toward the light
Why is he so naive
When the glass cracks he only waits to hear it sing
I send smoke signals into his morning coffee swirl my fears into the cream
he stirs sweetness and dreams like it’s the only recipe he knows
I fold the calendar where the dates go missing—one two three—
and he counts stars that don’t exist naming them after me
I left a lipstick bruise on the back of my own hand once
hoping he’d notice the bruise before the bandage rotted
There’s a metronome inside my chest that’s started skipping beats
I tap the rhythm on his jacket a Morse he can’t decode—
he thinks it’s jazz and asks for more
Why is he so naive
He collects petals from storms and calls them bouquets
Why is he so naive
He thinks the cracks in the map are hidden roads
Why is he so naive
When the smoke clears he only sees the party lights
I wore a bell on my words every syllable a chime—
it jingled warnings down the stairwell of his mind
I painted caution stripes on the edge of our bed neon and blunt
he slept sideways and dreamed we were safe from the blunt
Tell me how to fold a lighthouse into a pocket-sized truth—
I tried I tried but paper loves the sea
Listen—
my shadow tapped your window three nights ago
left a note that said: “This is weather please learn the weather ”
You read it as a postcard
Why is he so naive (Why is he so naive)
He thinks thunder’s applause and rain’s a lover’s breath
Why is he so naive (Why is he so naive)
He picks glitter from the wreck and calls it treasure
Why is he so naive
He hums through the cracks and never hears the wind complain
I whispered “leave”into the record’s groove
cracked the needle where the chorus used to live—
he asked for another song
I lit a match inside the truth and blew it out for warmth—
he thanked me for the light
Why is he so naive
Why does he turn ghosts into good mornings
Why is he so naive
Why does he kiss the edge of danger like it’s a promise
Why is he so naive
Because loving him is like teaching winter how to wear a coat—
and he keeps laughing at the coat
So I hum on like a siren turned lullaby
leave the radio on low where the static sounds like rain
Maybe one day he’ll hear the fine print in my breathing—
until then naive is the word I tuck into our pockets
and pull it out when the lights go out just to see him smile
