A little less than classy.
A **** and chuck,
one and done.
But that's fine with me, baby.
No emotions,
no feelings.
Just two lonely souls that make something
that doesn't come close to love, at night.
I wonder what we could bring to the table
if we laid our hearts down
like sacrifices to a God we don't believe in.
And I want to hear you plead guilty
to the jury of my not-so-innocence
because the only praise I'll ever get from you is
the sound of my clothes piling up on your floor.

These are the lies we've broken
and the promises we've told.

Sing to me freedom,
fight for the song.

Surrender to the King,
bow to the battle.

Drink the blood
and spill the poison.

Confused by your words.
Tell them softly.
No questions allowed.

To awake rested, yawn and
get up on the
completely right side
of the bed.

a full, healthy breakfast,
quality coffee.
good news headlining
the paper.

the smell of a bathroom after
a woman has spent time
getting ready for a
night out.

words of kindness from a friend.
such things I adore.
...but I love
poetry more.

a fully comprehensible manual.
a love letter post-it note,
or a book on something
hysterically interesting,

like psychology or history.
music of the kind that you welcome
sticking to your mind for a
whole day.

these things make my day for sure.
...but I love
poetry more.

her hands on me, warm with
sleep as she reaches over and
sighs between dreams.
yes. he's still here...

waking up with her hair in
my face, falling asleep on the
sofa with my head on her legs
the way a dog warms its owner's

feet with itself while resting.
not feeling like myself when
she's further away than the
next room.

hard to not shake
when she cries.
impossible not to laugh when
she laughs,

and to not want her
when she
wants me
to.

****. it's plain to see.
...I love her
more than poetry...