Calluses

It's summer and we're drunk on dandelion wine,

your fingers all chipped nail polish and calluses and perfection,

threading daisies into a crown you place on my head like a halo,

giggling as it falls.

I met a girl, once,

who would write poems on the backs of resturaunt napkins

because they were just a little bit magic

and I think this is a little bit magic, too,

this moment, pinned between fragility and forever,

where it's enough to not feel quite so alone anymore.

I don't know if I would call what we have obsession

but the sweetness on your tounge is my favorite poem.