Smoothing the surfaces,
I am sanding with silk
The most delicate predicate-noun,
It is the coldest summer day,
A surprising familiarity down the spine
Like a word older than the dictionary,
I can barely keep my eyes open,
Fixated on the live stream,
Now warm water running, hearts racing like dogs.
It filters the blood like honesty without pretending
When our clear bets are as real as it gets.
But we're still waking to see if it really happened,
What salty truth dampened the two-ply tissue.
I had been excused for the torch I carried.
The resolution felt breezy and most definitely right,
It buried worried flames and cooled off with the night,
The smoke gave out signals undeniably bright;
I don't have to keep looking, everything is alright.