there are pieces of you in the air and i’m taking them in

mouthfuls as i run from the last flat tire by the side of the road and the Almost it could have brought me to, into the grass it fed me to instead.

you’re mingling with the hairs in my nostrils as i wrinkle my face, ready to sneeze only to

not sneeze

because i think i like the tickle

and i’m afraid that the colors that come out of my nose won’t be as pretty as they feel sliding down into my chest

and they’ll be harder to clean up -

fading to crust my kleenex can’t reach behind your eyes.

there are pieces of you in the air and i can’t get enough

you’re mingling with the hairs on my neck, and

i think i like the tickle, and

you might be worth the congestion.