To the girl with curls much longer than my own,

When approached by a boy, flip him off and spit in his face
Tell him you're a rebel,
a punk,
a lover.

Tell him that love is for suckers and
guys are only good for *******.
And even then it's a hit or miss.

Explain to him how you have violent urges to break things
Go into detail about why your parents didn't stay together
Get drunk and make out with his best friend

Respond to his texts with one syllable
Talk about how you're ready for commitment
(in the long term sense)

Insult his music,
his books,
his friends
and most importantly his morals.
If he doesn't fall in love with you, there must be something wrong...

After all, it worked on me

Our bodies connect like lincoln logs
Lips, palms, and legs fitting into the notches I carved for you

Never able to form words fast enough, I sip on cider and dream of flying

If I were able to, I would only inhale
Taking in all the things the world has to offer

You are Peter Pan
You keep my feet from staying planted on the ground
And when I want nothing more than to sleep, you take me swimming with mermaids

We sit cautiously on the ledge of euphoria
As if one wrong step and our hearts will drop to the pit of our stomach
Being digested by our fear of heart break and rejection

I paint your face on my palm
With your eyes heavy lidded and your mouth slightly open
You are the epitome of down trodden
Bob Dylan is your Jesus
Jack Kerouac your Salvation

You drum my heartbeat on the windowsill, as we contemplate the color yellow
You brush your thumb across my ankle, drape your arm over my insecurities
You carry love in your finger print, trust in your eyelashes

As dawn approaches, I find myself wrapped in the arms of a lost boy.

I scrape my forearms as if the hand you have clasped around my wrist is a lion’s jaw.

I don’t do well under social pressures
And I would love nothing more than to lend you my underwear and tell you about my dreams
But my modesty is a jealous ***** and will have none of that

So instead, I put my feet on your lap and touch behind my ears
Positioning them like satellites, prepared to receive any data you let into the atmosphere

I tell you about the boy I loved in high school, you tell me about the book you’re reading

I dress you up to be John Keats
With words of romance swimming through your veins
From your eyes to your hands
The prose you conjure make my eyelashes sweep against my upper cheek

With ***** in your blood and the night still young,
You have the ability to write me a novel crafted out of the moments that have crept through your fingers

I grasp at your memories as if they were butterflies,
Careful not to touch the wings, so that their beauty might be seen by someone else

I sit and watch as your face becomes a sitcom
With all the laughs and pains that a script can hold
I look for places where I might make notes in the margins, trying to make you more cohesive

I glue a penny to my forehead
Face up
In hopes that someone will take it from its place
Looking for the bit of luck it holds and instead grab my hand.

My stomach clenches in knots
Craving an understanding of the words you mumble into your coffee

My toes massage the soles of my shoes
Looking for a foot hold in the song I’m humming

But instead I breathe on my tea and dwell on the kiss we shared in the basement