for carpet-burns along my spine,
for tender lovebites served with
holes and tears in my t-shirt
that I'll shyly play with in the morning,
while deciding if I should stare at you
or my empty coffee mug, or the ashtray
sitting on the railing of my backyard deck,
where so many times before,
I've guarded every part of my body
I wanted your hands to intrude on,
and held my breath when I otherwise wished
you'd seize it from my lungs with your mouth.
And I'd warn you that I might wake up mad most mornings,
if you knew I meant that I wake up every morning
absolutely ******* mad for you.