oh, he came in the back door
in a rush of warm wind
without much entrance, like
when you pull a pan from the
oven--he slides across the rack
and sets up on the stove,  
sat at my table and delicately
touched my hands, not
much precedence for
falling in love, so I
wanted to tell him
everything. But
most of the time he'd
kick up on my knees
spread his calves out
on my thighs and let
Kate curl up in the
middle--I'd just
go silent with the
overwhelming urge
to rub his shins and
smile.


how much of me is the old me
how many girls still feel the hands
of other men? he says move on
and I want to tell him that every
blue ford makes my palms sweat
that I'm only waiting on God,
for his for sure, a divine yes
that even if it's no longer between
the three of us, and it's just him
and some girl named Savannah or Cassie-May
I'll wait as long as I need to for the blessed answer
because he thinks he's pointless and I think he's

beautiful.