You once said that tearing off clothes is like peeling
an orange, and that making out reminds you
of when you discovered a purple crayon
for the first time. You say the world
is not black and white, not made up of two sides,
but instead of something in between blue and green.
Sunday school taught you something
about the polarity of colors,
about how red apples aren’t always sin.
If you bite into them, they reveal
a lacy white underneath. An act
of sin doesn’t make you a sinner
you said, but instead it makes you
see the world in color,
in the shades in between.
I see where my body ends and yours starts,
your wrists and arms as horizons that blend
into my skin, you are a pale night sky
against my ocean of freckles. I can see
the inverse of skin against palms, the lines
on my fingers forcing a comma into yours.
There’s meaning in between the etches
on your hands, stacked friction
between the sides of your fingers against mine,
pale roots intertwined on cotton sheets.
As you stretch out beside me now,
I understand what you mean
when you say “I need to live
in a state of parallel play.”