Baby, please, come over.
I’ll roll you a honey joint-
sweet and sticky. I’ll make
you tea. Leave the world
at the door. The wind has
nothing on your smile.
Storms cannot compare
to your fingers in mine. The weather
means nothing to me anymore.
Baby, please, let me love you.
I want to know your edges.
I want to scream with you
in my car, windows down
like a pop song; like a goddamn
lesbian indie flick.
Baby, please, pour yourself
on to me. Spill yourself
on to my red sheets.
I won’t complain about the mess
because I’ll spill too.
Our definition of entropy will be
humble,
chaotic,
ground-breaking
crystalline,
rapture-inducing,
holy,
and most of all, it will be
freeing.
Baby, please, have faith.
I’ll let you pick the curtains.
I’ll hold you when you cry, and
I won’t judge if you don’t want
to go to class for the sixteenth day
in a row. I promise to try.
I’ll bring you pizza in bed
and hold your hair after
I pressure you into taking
that last shot. I’ll blow
smoke into your lungs, if
you want me to; if you let me.
Baby, please, hold me.
Sometimes, not all the time.
I can be a mess of bloody knuckles
and crooked glasses. When I get really
nervous, I kiss with my eyes open.
I pretend to be more grownup
than I really am. I feel small inside
my skin. My mouth is always wet
with longing. I’ve always been a hard
sell, and this is no different.
izzy806
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