The delicate scent of your perfume soaked in my sweater
Or the feeling of the last kiss
Lingering
On my lips.
Or my skin's memory of your fingertips,
Or when my eyes fight a losing battle with sleep,
And then it's nothing but dreams of you.
All this
Is the impression you leave on me,
I am an art canvas.

You have a key to my house
Yet you're not my girlfriend.
It's a complicated relationship
And at the same time it's not.
I'm happiest at the bar on a Saturday night
But you always want to stay in.
I'm hungover on a Sunday
But you want to wake up and live.
You're a sweet and pleasant girl
And me, with my simple yet devilish ways,
I am a rogue.

I text you and you come over.
"That skirt," I say, opening the door for you, "I'm pretty sure it can cure cancer."
And with the rapidity of lightning,
You blush crimson.
Now in the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water.
"Is this what you were having for lunch?"
"Yes."
"Really? Frozen pizza and Kool-Aid?" you raise an eyebrow.
"Yes."
"You're so... I dunno... in general, you're just... I dunno... disorganised? clueless about life? stupid? weird? drunk with alarming regularity? irrational? stupid? Wait, did I already say that?"
"Yes you did. But wait, these are good qualities, right?"
"Yup. Just what I look for in a guy," you walk to me and kiss me on the lips,
We kiss some more,
Touching, rubbing,
"Just a sec," I pull away, "I'm sorry if I taste like pizza."
You look at me like I'm an idiot,"Just... shut up and kiss me!"
You're getting wet and excited
Like a child at a water park.
That's an odd comparison,
Well I guess
I am weird.

I'm inside of you,
But I am so convinced that it is not ***,
Such intensity,
Such deepening fulfillment.
No, that was not ***,
It was naked poetry.
I am a poet.