MYCELIAL KISS

My odd brain sees what’s next—

a root-map glowing beneath the pavement.

I send tiny spores of prophecy

through the ethernet of soil.

Underfoot, the city’s subconscious

twitches—

a million fungal neurons

typing me in morse.

You walk above, unaware your soles

are downloading my dreams.

Each stride sprouts a silent mushroom,

bioluminescent Morse.

The time we talk

is a spore-print on midnight glass—

illusion so thin you can see stars

breathing underneath.

Let the metropolis exhale brick-dust.

We will meet inside the hollow ring

where language turns to scent.

I’ll offer you a single spore;

swallow it and hear the planet think.

Your pupils widen—suddenly cathedral.

The mycelium choir sings through your capillaries:

“Grow, grow, grow sideways—

never break the surface, just glow.”

wonk I, wonk I, wonk I…

Mycelial kiss, mycelial kiss—

tongue of root, lip of loam.

We fruitbodied lovers

blink out spores like wedding confetti.

“Every tree is a telephone,

every grave is a router.

Death is just the final upload—

we’re the gentle malware of return.”

It’s all an illusion—

but the illusion composts.

We will wake up covered in moss,

holding hands that have become

entire forests.

Streetlights flicker like dying glow-worms.

We dissolve into each other’s hyphae—

two spores that forgot the word for “alone,”

remembering only

“home, home, home…”