Perhaps

I run my fingers along the jagged edges of your laugh.
I imagine the taste of it, pink-smeared, bittersweet,
like chocolate only used for making something else.

Your watch will drone its gleaming tick,
its face so cold and delicate,
filling your shape with whispers of weight.

But your hand is warm in mine, and I smell rain,
darling, there’s something growing.

by A.J.