Maybe this time the pale violets will catch fire
instead of the tablecloth and my mother will
come out of her study and yell for me to do
something about the flames eating our house.
Then I'll have to call you on the phone and say,
"Not tonight, David."
You're a clever tease with a drama club smile,
an almost perfect posture that screams,
"Believe in me or else I'll melt into oblivion."
Especially in the beginning, I thought you
were conceited, but at the same time,
I dreamed drunkenly about tracing
the curve of your jaw and causing
color to form on your cheeks.
You pushed me away when
I tried to kiss you behind the burgundy curtains.
"I'm not who you think I am,"
you said but I replied,
"None of us are.. Now, open your mouth, please."
It's strange how polite I sounded because all I
wanted to do was pin you against a glossy rock
surface and make you
squirm with the tip of
my thirsty tongue.
David, there are moments when I hate the way
you invited yourself into my world;
embedding your amaretto and pine scent in
my jacket sleeve.
Also, the empathy in your New York blue
irises makes me
wish I hadn't approached you that day
in the quiet auditorium because if you
decide this isn't
then I won't know how to handle
the awkward silence afterwards.
David, I'd rather
not treat you coolly
but maybe this time
I'll say no to lying under your
glass-cut body and
feeling every steady thrust
and unfair motion that
you insist is more than
just premature fun.