Love Poems, you’ll know them.

I like the moon
but my god, the moon likes you.
You smell like warm butter, dripping
for tongues to catch, quick slick thick with
wanting. I’m avoiding absolutes like a cat catching
fish in a sea of them. Touch: for as brief a moment
as possible. Bad days leave me swaying and heady
with opium images of you, on occasion, and
i burn them all up; fingertips. Singed lips unhinged
at the memory of your,  pillow talk mouth.
Careful with that one, it pulls to the south
but i’ll draw you a map using fingernails and
fine stitching. So you know where to begin,
unpicking. Tissue paper directions dissolve
with a change in the tide, no need to hide,
the X has rubbed out. Your hands, delicately
capable as they are, hold the pen.
I gave it to you, but tomorrow, i’ll take it back
and begin again. Lunar reflections like eyes
in the ocean you’re dipping toes into.
Cautious and overwhelmed, you could
fall under. You could, and in the palm of those
vessels of surety, conveyances of love too
wonderful too look at head on – I’d have my own
version settled. Fingers linked like chain mail.
As long as you let me, as long as i like.
Moons can pull the tide, but not my intent.
Not with all their might.


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