From a tip we’re drawn,
lines curving from another
until we touch again.
Does that point bend up
in a heart shaped fixture.
Or does it just sag?
A bag taught, bloated,
and falling like a cartoon.
Or skinny, as if a tear down my cheek.
Lingering on my lips.
Am I a salty ocean? Are you a damned river?
Bursting forward to surge into the sea
where you’re instinctively licked up,
pulled back in.
To start my water cycle anew.