I like humidity– film like espresso hairlines or Elmer’s glue skins on 3rd grade thumbs– wear it like crown of larkspur or hyacinths– kiss it when I roll over in the night– whenever I wake up before morning I’m at the pancake beach house– the one with the unpredictable ants in the kitchen that laid eggs in the sugar bowl– the ones we mistook for chocolate sprinkles. Where we peeled off each morning like a fresh clementine veins– boiled them to dismantle the hell of another person’s house that we occupied like the mucus arms of a sea anemone. At dusk when the storm gnawed at the pen-cap lighthouse I wanted the structure to fall– a spoon into the bubbling soup of chicken broth-air. I woke up with the odd feeling that I was swimming on earth– skin unfurling like a porch-flag or broken eggs in a pot of salt water in a pot without a handle– I like humidity– I like my skin as your skin. I like to wake up from insomnia to look out the window and watch the storm’s jaws gnashing across the channel– the pine trees cells as my cells– your dead skin peeling harsh like a tangerine into mine– share my white veins wake with me in the storm– pull your fingers through the crema of my hair and go back to sleep simmering with me– orange peels lost like ants in the soup pot with out a handle.