Should it matter what we call it?
What sound our mouths make?
That's just typology, interpretation;
my love for words doesn't mean
I find them adequate.
Do we have to call it anything?

Can't I just say
*I will love you tonight, 
like that girl you write poems for,
only better ?

I cannot deescalate you,
or pin you to a warm bed and
kiss the anger from your lips.

The trap is set, or sprung—
always in the teeth of something;
always wondering if it's best
to struggle or lie perfectly still.

Your words ****; they remind me 
that I've made all love borrowed,
having spent mine as I pleased.

Not so long ago
you thought that I made the weather;
you braved me

and when you thought the sun would be nice
I gave you auspicious skies
and a sweet, cool breeze
so that you might feel me,

so that I could whisper in passing
I love you, remember?

Well, I don't make the weather,
but I still love you.
Remember?

You did.
I was parchment;
you wrote with both hands.

I curled at my edges;
the ink is still wet.

You are my former palace,
my walled city,
the cradle of my  disinhibition.

You are my intricate
system of roadways.
(I know you by heart)

You incite rebellions
in my sleepy villages
and send me postcards
from dangerous places.

You are my lost transcripts;
we know each other the way river
knows sky—  a cosmic nod,
a reflection of always.

So you are not fooled
by pretty perfumed bombs
that explode in clouds of kisses
and whispers of yes,

not outfoxed
by foxiness,
sleight of hand
and hips

not suckered
by my puckered
lips

and yet
you gladly fall
for all my tricks.

From wind and stone, sand.
From faith and prophets, temple.
From beast and hunter, blood.
From my heart and your heart, monsoon.