My complaints are scabs,
and too much love.
I keep looking at the width of my wrists,
and the length of my hands
to make sure that I'm not disappearing.
You give me two solid up and downs
before deciding I am worth talking to, and when you
finally do speak, you are rock, paper, scissors in a man
trying to reason yourself into the trenches of my conversation.
"Are you up for the task?" you ask,
careening over a knock-hockey stick across the table.
"Whoever loses buys next beer."

I want you like the first spring day,
like the easing into a cold pool,
like all the cautionary tales at once.
I just want to let you drown in me,

there's something to be said of a good.

03/08/2015

Posted on 03/08/2015
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