When love writes itself, weaves bold impressions into your tender parts,
the invisible to everyone but you tattoos you’ve earned by believing,
by memorizing the half-moons on his fingernails,
by loving the light that blazes in you, like they eye of a storm on a radar screen,
you are a brilliant red hurricane moving amongst the faded and the jaded and the bitter,
sometimes you feel like a shipwreck, but who else is worthy to ruin you?
you get angry at him and at God because it’s two against one,
you scoff at the unlevel playing field, then triple dog dare them to try and kick you out of the game,
and when he’s nowhere near, your hands shake because the simple thought of the way his tongue might feel on the inside of your thigh makes you dizzy and terrifies you,
then in desperation you pray that someone like him will saunter in,
and what you get are impostors and you laugh when you realize God takes you literally,
so you finally learn to say not someone like him, just him, only him,
while you blush at God and wonder what the big fat deal was in asking,
because your entire life you hear be careful what you wish for,
so one day you say screw that noise and you wonder what his skin feels like at three in the morning,
and if his eyelids change their paleness while he sleeps,
you have a million questions about his belly button,
you believe you have lost your senses because you would live and die alone than die and live with another who isn’t him,
that the ordinary with another not him will damn you,
the words that rush and tumble in your veins will perish one by one,
a pitiful way of dying that is highly overrated, you can testify,
but mundane with him will carry immaculate air to your lungs,
honey what’s for dinner? will sound like holy scripture from the good book,
and you will find yourself devoted and faithful to the way his chest rises and falls at three in the morning,
after the first three in the morning, after hundreds of three in the mornings.
Burlesque Press 