Your name is no accident, your face is not the work of God. You are fashioned from fresh water and cellophane, you are wearing a shirt with tulle cuffs. Your body is a buttery electrical current, freckly enough, lively enough. Your brain is a cushioned receptacle for who-knows-what, I sure don’t know. Of all possible onomatopoeia, you are a pop, but inspired pop. You are hardwired to my heart, you’ll explode if the rate ever slows down. So call me in the evenings when you feel the adrenaline leaving the gravity between us. I’ll run for you, always.