You poured yourself into my mason jar,
slow–
like syrup, 
or maybe smoke 

(I don’t remember asking for company,
but I was happy to have you regardless.)

We danced like the
borders of two seas, 
pressed too close, too warm, 
and suddenly 
it was too much.

We gasped at each other, 
like dying things
I said, “we need air,”
“we need a moment
to think.”

So we poked a hole in the lid
to let in something
to take into our lungs
and we sat
like syrup– 
or maybe smoke,
or anything else 
that lingers
long after it should;
thinking

Weeks passed
with your hands 
all over the 
thinnest parts of me,

And then you slipped out
the hole
we made
to breathe.

To stay alive.

You used it to leave;

sweet as syrup
vanishing like smoke.