I’ve gotta tell you,
there is a soft spot
between my ribs
like a bruised peach
in the shape
of your fingers,
though you’ve never so much
as touched me
with more than the whispers
and serrated edges
of words dripping
from your tongue
through a pinhole
to my heart’s vacancy signs.
Some might call this a weakness,
but I call it romantic
the way you make an ash tray
of my lungs
and fill the marrow of my bones
with poetic fodder.
And you don’t suspect a thing.
remember that time you asked me why I thought I was getting everything wrong? every time I discovered anyone else, your voice echoed in the farthest corners of my mind. I don’t give myself the time to get them wrong because I had already done that with you. you, the boy with the solstice heart, the open-armed words and deadbolt teeth. you are the only one I want to get wrong.
You are full of my antonyms, boy, and I want to devour them all.
I wanted us to be the hurricane
that sends the neighbors running,
but you’re always the one who’s hiding
and I’m not the heart of the storm
without your streetlight eyes
making way for my car crash silhouette.
I miss your 90 proof words, but I’ve never been much of a drinker anyway.