a hand held across the table
a paper bag of alaskan candy
a pair of tickets in a red envelope
a daffodil rescued from the street

"can't I just look at you?" you asked me when I tried to get you to focus on your food, the most mischievous little smile on your face

(if you asked me again what you asked me in february -
I don't know I don't know I don't know)

it goes without saying that I'm afraid of the depth of my own capacity to hurt people
I am a sailboat made of paper, I am a terrible idea
I am everything everyone I have ever loved has left behind,
the pieces that don't fit, the muddy debris

I'm afraid of my own fear, I'm afraid that I will deny you
and that it will leave wounds in you deeper than any you've ever had
I'm afraid about feeling guilty about being with you
and I am afraid because I can't see how my parents could ever know

(despite it all, there's still my body, like an animal, looking at your lips and hips and eyes and hands, whispering
I want, I want, I want)