We are not good at love,
we are not fools who would waste
the last breath in a crowded room
on each other.
Hands and lips to ourselves,
we keep our feet on the ground,
shuffling around with toes
buried in moans, pressed up against the dark.
Edging on the brink of a sexless, wanton hope,
I submit to a child who still dreams of feeling you
sandwiched between cotton sheets and finger tips,
ankles like intertwined ribbons, chaffing at the seams.
You are everywhere, yet
I fold away the itch and hide it in the dark,
setting my sights on truths that only exist
inside outdated history books with pages splitting at the seams.
Still I will light the way
as half a heart should,
provoked by an itch that
I am the fool who would waste my last breath in a crowded room on you.
