Love is in the details, the way
you ask me softly on that quiet,
charcoal couch if I need you

to press the web of flesh between
my finger and my thumb to ease
the pounding in my head:

Pressure for pressure.
It’s the way you say
I’ll be okay before I tell you

that I’m not. The way you know
I need to hear the things I don’t
believe. The way you see me

broken and beautiful —
a duality, not
a mutual exclusion. I don’t

know what to make
of us, but
it feels safe here. So I’ll stay

under nebulous terms,
until I burn your open heart.
I don't know why

I cannot hold affection
without tearing
my closest friends apart.