Leaving the door unlocked—
while I’m in the shower—
of the apartment—
where I live alone—
in the unpolished part of town—
seems like a bad idea.  

But see, I know that it will be you
walking through said door
when I hear the slow creak of its hinges.

So I relax,
and lean into the hot water—
fearless—
anxious—
knowing I've purposely left
the bathroom door open too.

I'm sitting the passenger's seat
of a bright blood orange 1973 Ford Pinto.
Adam Levine is driving.
We talk about the weather,
and sing along to some Hall and Oates on the radio.
(By the way, he nails those high notes—
just like Adam Levine should.)

In the interim, we share a pint of
Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte ice cream—
a flavor which we both agree
is subpar and a total disappointment.
As he passes the pint back to me,
he admits that his abs in half the photos
you see in People magazine are Photoshopped,
and pats his little round belly in jest.
I confess that I can always identify
even the most flawless Photoshop jobs—
and honestly, I don't think
he is the sexiest man alive anyway.

We have a laugh after that one, Adam and me,
and devour the silence for a bit before
I lean in and ask him if he even knows
where he's taking us.
He leans in too and makes some brief,
but serious eye contact,
(his eyes are hazel, by the way),
and he says something to me
that I really need to hear.

“It doesn't matter
if I know where we're going, Bitsy.
You can always get there from here.”

I lean back in my seat
and smile as I watch the world streak by.

“Love,” am I right?
Either you handle the concept with a fifty-foot pole,
or you lick your lips, and
sink your teeth right into it without question.
You choose to be safe
or you choose to be satisfied.

But there’s a small collection of us
who hang back in the shadows.
Those of us who choose neither.
Those of us who think.

We’re hesitant to even speak the word.
[Rightfully so.]
You're a naive if you use it too much.
You're a heartless ******* if you don’t say it at all.
But it's only a word.
We shouldn't give it the authority
to paint us into a corner.

Yet, here I sit
where my favorite two walls meet—
plenty of moments for thinking—
a thick, fresh coat dripping down
on either side of me.

There you stand,
arms crossed and smiling—
all come-hither and inviting—
saturated paintbrush in hand.

The only thought I can manage?
*****. I really like this color.

I'm not ashamed to find solace
in the melancholy.
I'd be willing to bet
that sadness
is a more prominent commonality
than smiling.

I can't find **** thing wrong with that.

There's a certain truth found in tears
that can't be derived from
a pair of curved lips.

A feather floating to the floor—
we hit the ground without
so much as a sound;

an unspoken beautiful blue.

So ice cleats look weird?
I bet they look **** ****
right after you slip.

I'm not ashamed to say
that today,
my ***** look impeccable.
They do—
and that makes me beam
in every possible way.
See,
we're rounding a long winter,
and it's cloudy outside.
I'm smart enough to know
that most days—
you have to make
your own god ****** sunshine.

Dosen't do any
good to add sugar if you're
not gonna stir it.