for my dear siobhan and her dearest eli

"Do you think one day people will write poetry about us?"
There’s a girl and she’s lying on the sheets draped in a shirt too big to be hers that smell like summer and ash, there’s a boy stretched out besides her and his cheek is resting on the soft of her stomach, her hands are in his hair. There’s music so soft that it sighs. He turns to look at her and she squeals when his chin dips into her navel, tickles. 
"What do you think they’ll write about?" He asks. 
She bites the thumb of her free hand, and looks at the ceiling “how sometimes when I look at you it’s like seeing the entire sky on your face.” 
She can feel his smile on her skin though she is not looking, just warmth and teeth, her knuckles tighten around his scalp. 
"How will they know how we loved?"
"I’ll write about it, they’ll read it and think I made you up in my head. It’ll be the most beautiful delusion." The mattress dips, and she reaches for him “where are you going?”
She turns her head to watch the dips of his body, the light touches him in strange places and for an anxious second she is jealous of it.
"Where do you we keep the permanent markers?" He asks
"The arts drawer."
"Of course," he murmurs, the slink of him in the dark tightens around her lungs, she wonders if anyone could feel so much longing for someone so close. "I’m going to turn you into poetry, you’ll be my very own scripture."
"I am not a canvas," she gasps. His hands are on her stomach, the ink is cold.
"For tonight."
"What have you written?"

He laughs and kisses her mouth softly, pushes the words into her throat
"I have loved her like this: 
she is at once water and electricity 
I will kiss her anyway 
the lack is worse than the burn”