The space between
your arm and mine
crackles,
and all I want to do
is run a single thumb
down the valleys of you:
jawline set like an unwavering
horizon, taut curve of neck facing
the stars, unyielding collarbones,
gentle rolling hills of shoulders,
and arms dusted mahogany.
When you speak,
the gravel of your words
settles on my skin, and clings.
My world wants to open up
and swallow you whole; you
just don't want to be a part
of my elaborate plan. O you
angry young man,
is this a love poem?
I hope not. I hope not.
I have come to believe
that I can write one only
at a time like this: lost,
unloved, unsure, foolish.
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