Everything You Do is a Balloon

Blue flare of sunlight on the floor after passing through a balloon
I am obsessed with the helium-filled globes, the tug upwards
on the ribbon tied around my wrist. I dream of being tiny,
floating down the hall in a tiny paper basket. The candy shine

makes my mouth water. I want to stick the balloon in my mouth
like I did when I was a child before my mom yanked it away
warning me I could suffocate myself, or my teeth could pop it
and the pieces fly down my throat and snap against my tongue.

The latex is pliant and sticky under my fingers. I remember twisting
balloon animals. The ketchup-bottle look of the air pump, the sad
farts of failure as the skinny tube flies across the room. The magic
of the flowers, swords, and crowns. The charisma of the dog.

You are just like these balloons in every way. I want to breathe
you in, feel the way you fill my lungs and make my chest light.