if i had the poetry to tell you how soft i am in hot bubbles
i could drive you mad
the combination of my prepackaged scents would make you curse
like they used to
for that one boy
whom i have willfully discarded

if you did not have the imagination
i would show you
and christen your forehead
with fig and blood orange

if you cannot reach my tousled wet head,
if you cannot not kiss my freckled shoulders,
if you cannot not put your arms around
my soft, bathwater waist
i should not tell you
that you could

no one
likes a tease