With Buddha tattooed on my neck,
I feel like I might finally have a vague understanding of serenity.

Submerge my worries in drunken logic and suddenly I am floating.
Unable to keep my feet on the ground,
I make a habit of leaving cupboards open.

With my drunken intentions,
I lay my head in your lap.
You twirl my curls in your fingers trying to wrap yourself within me.

You are a rotting romantic.

My mother once told me to “Love softly, for love is fragile.”
It was then I realized that my mother had never been in love.

Love is a backstabbing ***** with no morals.

Love is merciful.

Love is red.

Love is rage.

Love is quiet.

Love is not fragile.

Fragile,
is my hand in yours at the end of the night.
When we’re too ****** up to function on the verge of passing out,
and you give my fingers one final squeeze.

I fight the sleep that is inevitable.

I watch as you dream with your mouth shut tight.
I imagine words of affection fighting to break free,
begging to make love to my ears.