Popcorn

I lick the tips of
my fingers run
my teeth along
the inside moons
of my nails your
words are salty
in the box butter
loose space like
silent change in
the theater the
light strobes across
your face zebra
stripes disappearing
reappearing one
finger grazes your
hand we both grasp
the same salty word
it is one we both
want to devour
yellow piece of
knowing yet
yet at the touch
our connection
severs credits roll
the young man
in his movie
theater vest stares
at us his broom in
hand as we leave
though opposite
exits