I wouldn’t be surprised,
if I stabbed you in the chest,
and gasoline sprayed out,
and set me on fire.
I liked you a little
before you tied that noose around my neck,
and then a lot more,
when you pulled it tighter.
It’s so cute when you try to scare me.
How can I feel threatened by you?
Our fingers are on the same trigger.
I wonder
what you use
for bookmarks,
or the shapes
that you imagine
on the plaster
of your ceiling.
I wonder
how many woods
you have
wandered through
and how many girls
have ended up
loving you.
If you thought aloud in front of me, I’d fall in love with you within the hour. Even now, when you run your fingers up my spine, I have to consciously tell my heart not to get too far ahead of itself. Maybe I’m too incredibly romantic. Maybe I’m desperate to write meaningful poetry again. Maybe I was stupid to look at anyone and think “maybe this time, it’ll unfold perfectly.” Or, maybe this time, it’ll unfold perfectly.
I had great love once,
and then I had it again.
Now I have the broken pieces of a tennis racket,
a tarnished chain around my wrist,
some dried out roses,
an empty Tiffany’s box,
an old sweatshirt to wear to bed,
a bent up ring in my jewelry box,
and a romantic ideal I can’t seem to throw away.
