Eleven

Hand in hand,
our breaths freeze
into the shape of laughter
and the moon
is smiling, too,

white-toothed crescent
suspends the last light
of the setting sun.
We buy magnetic bingo
to play

at the Thai place,
where we take too many mints
and wink at each other
each time we pass
the bowl. At home,

we crunch the candies
between our teeth
in a pitch dark room
to watch the sparks fly,
a trick your grandfather

left for us, you tape
blue paper
to your arms and flap
your bluebird wings
into my room,

I watch you fly,

and we are in the middle,
you and I,
not quite what we were,
nor what we will
become, and lingering
tonight,
so joyously,
so perfectly
in between.

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