You have me
chasing words as if
they're already
poetry,
sifting through
my index of
ways to explain what
you've done to me,
tie them to a hook,
throw the line,
& wait for prose

I'm so prone to wilting
in the sun,
by the lake,
because my skin
is made of
Morning Glories
and you've blasted me with
every type of sun the desert
has
to offer

Now I'm catching words like I'm fishing
for poetry to
feed
my need
to hold you in
a boat and then tell the
world how I love you.