I scrape my forearms as if the hand you have clasped around my wrist is a lion’s jaw.

I don’t do well under social pressures
And I would love nothing more than to lend you my underwear and tell you about my dreams
But my modesty is a jealous ***** and will have none of that

So instead, I put my feet on your lap and touch behind my ears
Positioning them like satellites, prepared to receive any data you let into the atmosphere

I tell you about the boy I loved in high school, you tell me about the book you’re reading

I dress you up to be John Keats
With words of romance swimming through your veins
From your eyes to your hands
The prose you conjure make my eyelashes sweep against my upper cheek

With ***** in your blood and the night still young,
You have the ability to write me a novel crafted out of the moments that have crept through your fingers

I grasp at your memories as if they were butterflies,
Careful not to touch the wings, so that their beauty might be seen by someone else

I sit and watch as your face becomes a sitcom
With all the laughs and pains that a script can hold
I look for places where I might make notes in the margins, trying to make you more cohesive

I glue a penny to my forehead
Face up
In hopes that someone will take it from its place
Looking for the bit of luck it holds and instead grab my hand.

My stomach clenches in knots
Craving an understanding of the words you mumble into your coffee

My toes massage the soles of my shoes
Looking for a foot hold in the song I’m humming

But instead I breathe on my tea and dwell on the kiss we shared in the basement