Porous and Enamored

Her only soft spot
is her lips—
I can tell
by the crescent imprints
of her teeth.

She traces every flaw
in the wood
while I watch, enamored.

Her fingerprints smear my buttons;
she signed her oath in spit and water.

She wakes at 100 mph,
drives two hundred miles
in the wrong direction—
blind
through Appalachian snow
and sunshine.

She walks heavy-footed,
chasing a sunset
we’ll never catch.

She only understands chaos.
Like a door pushed too hard,
she closes.

I am porous—
her emotions flood in.

I am hypersensitive
to the moment
she becomes herself again,
trying to birth
the child the hills left hidden within.