If you were drunk, I didn’t know.
You didn’t say anything stupid.
Your tongue was blossoming,
pronouncing your kiss, cleanly.
I was glad your breath was hot enough
to melt the night resin off of me.
I can’t let you go now. I want to go places with you; obscure little places, just to be able to say: here I came with her.
Brigitte Bardot and Kirk Douglas, 1950s
I’m sitting opposite you in the bar,
waiting for you to uncross your boundaries.
I want to rip off your logic
and make passionate sense to you.
I want to ride in the swing of your hips.
My fingers will dig in you like quotation marks,
blazing your limbs into parts of speech.
But with me for a lover, you won’t need