I swear I just walked
right in with my heart
and begged "here have
this, have this, have this"
and I don't think you were
ready. I'm so sorry I put
my problems in your
care, but thank you for
taking them anyway and
tucking them neatly into
the pocket on the front of
your shirt (where I think
you intend to keep them).
You are the loveliest
person I've ever been
(and ever will be)
allowed to call my own.

Lately                  my                  brain
has been fuzzy and I don't know
how to tell you in c a s u a l
words that I've got this
c    a    n     y    o    n
in  my  left  lung  in
the shape of your glasses
that t h r o b s  and  deepens
every time you are away from me.
What I mean to say is that I love you so
much it scares me,   that the fact that I
have  to  go  to    bed    without  your
fingers in    reaching   distance is the
main       reason  I  have       trouble
sleeping, that I am  obsessed with
the way your  mouth tastes like
home  and how  your   words
have  promises  of  forever
s e e p i n g  out  of their
endings.   Please  don't
f                                    
a            ­    
       l
                                 l
o u t   of   l o v e
with          me.

I hope you think of me in
typewriter font. I want to be
stamped across your skin so
everyone will know that you
call yourself mine. I have
branded your initials into
every vertebrae of my spine
(can you feel it when you run
your fingers down my back?),
sewn your name into the collars
of my jackets, tattooed your
fingerprints on my neck. All
that I am belongs to you.

I am not allowed
to have your
mouth (a fact which
I am more than
well aware of) but
today I did in the
basement of an
antique mall and
I wish it hadn't
been so fleeting,
been so rushed.
But after all this
time it was still
enough
it was still enough
you are still enough.