beetroot tints my tongue and teeth.
touch, too, deposits tiny memories upon my skin,
words tickle when spoken too close to my ear
as feet, grazing, skim the floor like
autumn leaves and early snow
and i hold on a moment after
the music ends and i should let go
but you simply smile, and understand
because my hands, too, have left their marks
to remind you where i was
in that instant when we were more
than tongues, teeth, and skin.