This morning my skin was finally sated
and I could hear my heart.
My chest burns hot and ripe alongside.
All night long you seep into my psyche.

Lust arcs through shoulder blades,
throat and right between eyes.
My spirit swells and fingertips singe.
Now, the lover I’ve always wanted to be.

You’re filled too, if you paid attention.
Note: Ritter chocolate, Asiatic lilies.
Should we discard streaky windows
or recycle them for a new heart?

I studied which sweater you’d like,
what’s for breakfast, when to ask and not.

Pity the next ones stirring rubble.
I’m tired and despairing of a whole-heart love.
Who would sort my scabs and scars?
Could I open bones filled with secrets?

All that energy scibbered away.
It sprung me: toss it in or let it out?
Maybe I could have spent it better
making something to hold onto…a nice pot.

I studied which sweater you’d like,
what’s for breakfast, when to ask and not.

Opportunity—what about those misses.
Don’t say “each love is a classroom …
You’ll get there when you’re ready.”
Whatever could that look like?

Love—soured, spat out and washed away,
beats safety, footing and progress.
Messy windows, crusty scabs, fossil-habits
stumble broken hearts along.

I studied which sweater you’d like.