handfuls of air

Far above the moonlit sand, I'm suspended

next to a red-haired girl, listening to waves.

She lights a blunt we share. She blows

a plume of smoke from her upturned nose

and leans back on her pink elbows, allowing

moonlight into her face and neck.

She is so happy to be there, she says,

and I agree, and the vein of our words

catalyzes the herb flowing through our blood.

I notice my left hand bloom with spores

growing out of the skin like sea anemones,

glowing green and quivering in the salty breeze,

hundreds of them unfolding in fractal clumps.

I feel them spreading. Her long legs stretch

toward me as she lounges in the deck chair,

pale skin glowing lunar. Can she see the growth?

I ask. She sits up and scoots close,

sliding her fingers through

her hair, which kisses my right shoulder.

I notice translucent neon protrusions

on her hands, too, rippling out,

but she cannot see them. She says,

I recognize you from somewhere.

Have we met before? She cracks a smile,

and we laugh, euphoric, knowing, happy.

She asks if she can kiss me.

We're facing each other, shoulders

leaning against the thin glass railing

saving us both from plummeting deaths.

The tide below recedes. She's cross-legged,

serious like some time-forgotten goddess.

I say, Of course, but it feels wrong,

as if you're my sister.

She says it's not like that.

So I yield, and we lean together.

Something has eclipsed the moon.

She places both hands on my shoulders.

We kiss, and any doubt is blown

to oblivion by the force of it,

and the luminous anemone arms

pulse and lengthen, intertwining,

tingling like new nerve endings,

and a great destructive wave looms

above us as our faces merge

and melt together.