Glowing , and then retreating ,

my feet are implacably warm.

Running,

churning

and the bark of the trees peels back as we fly by.

The paint from the walls chip as we slink around corners, lost in those hallways,

falling in on us,

sweating as were digging up our bones,

and breathing through my nose;

and it has nothing to do with the heat.

it has nothing to do with my dreams.

It’s chemtrails when we fly too high.

It’s contours when you touch me just right,