I wish I could blow you a rolling molten glass bowl. Bristol blue, cobalt oxide left in the inside of your mouth: a hydria, a metaphor, a background voice. Eyelids are lined purple on the insides, barring and unbarring, the hem of your jacket as you bend down to open a bag floating and connecting with the polygonal shapes of my subretinal fluid.
I wish I could swallow you whole so your beauty would live inside my belly forever.