i don't leave much to the imagination.
pressing on, and hard against
you,
nailed to your floorboard with the rest
of your things.
and i think to myself that it's a
little troubling,
the shackles making grooves
in my wrists, and how
you find them pretty.
but i always end up there
anyway.

maybe this doesn't flow the way you
want it.
or you'll have to ask what it means, and
i'll say for the billionth time that
i don't know.
and even if i did,
you wouldn't get it.
syntax aside, you have
no mind
for the meaning of things.

sometimes i think you’ll set me free.
so happy to part with the
things that you can’t handle.
but then i think,
why would you, when
i keep the dust from settling
at the foot of your bed,
and i'm always there.
when you need me.

i mean, goddamn,
what a catch i must be.  
charming, and funny,

and completely dispensable.