I let you walk me home last night
in a freezing March downpour;
I said you shouldn't love me
and for that, you loved me more.

My love was like a playful kitten,
curious and quickly smitten –
maraud the house to see what's in it,
intrigued by all the things forbidden.

Your love was like a lazy hound,
content to dig the same old ground –  
or better yet, to go lay down;
a nuisance, having me around.

I saw a photo
of a plain little farmhouse;
I imagined us
kissing in the bright kitchen
and lilacs in jelly jars.

that's always the first thing I think
                    love
when lofty           begins to
                                              sink.

is not a kiss of measured bliss,
perfect in its timeliness;
it's the one that leaves your heart undone,
a far from perfect hit-and-run
that isn't great until redone.

flicker-interference-frequency* (broadcast nightly)
static-soundbites-satellite (fading slightly)

but nothing of the woman
who chooses words with such precision
to lead your eyes to only pretty frames;
a portrayal of desire, sensuality,
a provocative anomaly—
who lights up every time you say her name.