It’s not just my shallow side, what with your confident golden hair,
and, well, it’s not just those curves in that form-fitting black slip,
it’s the superb pillow-talk I quite firmly believe we’d
attempt. Oh, it would flow quite prettily, the way your lips form
and foolishly I grin.
this is a cledgy crush. I don’t even know how you feel
about Israel v Palestine; who’s your least favorite fascist dictator,
alive or dead? are you a feminist? what’s your view on the protests
turned riots in pick-an-American-city?
Despite this lack of conversation my mind keeps droning on in the key
of whatever it was that song you sang. Something minor, maybe.
No, we won’t see each other again, but these seem like important
they seem like things you should think about,
look like you do,
think, about things, I mean.