He fidgets. Avoids eye contact. Does not touch
my leg with his. Talks quick. Breathes fast.
Looks down often. Looks up often. Says my poems
are diaphanous. Sees me through a different
lens. Does not act upon his impulses. Does not
touch my leg with his.
I drink from his glass. I put myself in his car. I
ration out my smiles. I do not trust him after dark.
I play with my hair. I cross my legs, uncross
my arms. I throw poems at him from afar. I do
not trust him after dark.
one time in high school i didnt read the assigned book and i was like fuck it imma write this essay anyway and i had no idea what the book was even about or who the characters were so i just spewed out some shit about archetypes and the teacher came up to me after class and told me i was the only student who truly understood the book
We need not destroy the past. It is gone.
I have a friend who believes
sex is simply an action
and love is a noun
If this is the case
then if one were to
break down I love you
then you get
a subject pronoun
an object pronoun
Just three ideas
my poem would let you in, but
it’s a hollow home"