Pella's Superpower

The glass that my fingertips touch will blossom, and the cracks are filled with yarn spun by moonlight. The neon of the advertising light box at the bus stop curls up into a kitten in the palm of my hand, and floats into the hot mist of the convenience store in the alley with a single touch. The wind in the subway tunnel hits the bottom of my eyes, and condenses into fragments of stars, which fall into your shoulders along the eyelashes and become unopened candy. The folds of the Milky Way hidden in the paper; I dare not touch the coffee cup you handed me, for fear that the temperature will grow into vines between my fingers, twisting the entire city's evening into a transparent cocoon, leaving us standing in the center, listening to each other's heartbeats, every particle of dust is quietly sprouting, growing into a breathing light that only we can see.