‘I like your hair,’ gently twirling it and
with a slight tug, you sorta whispered
in some early daylight phase. Our fingers
were linked, index only, and my brain did
that thing where it forgets where my body
ends and yours begins.
I lost it there, because the last time morning
noises poured into a city apartment window
life felt so great. It was neat, but not gaudy
like my grandpa used to say. You used to say
‘I like you,’ and ‘make some time for me,’
and ‘I’m glad I got to see you.’
Tricky, tricky. It’s easy to convince oneself
something can work when you’re the one
being chased. Maybe the story of wild sex
on New Year’s Eve in a post-modern lake house
basement bedroom was too much too soon.
It’s not fair. I had so many other good things
to share, but like, what’s the point? You really
to give a shit.