when i look at you
my fragile heart feels like it's ruthlessly
being squeezed as a doused sponge would be
when the soapy water is being drained from it.

when i think of you
my dead brain feels like it has blacked out
as if it were in a one-on-one cage match
and the opponent took advantage of an open shot.

but when i'm physically with you
all i want to do is trace uneven circles
around your porcelain skin and plant dainty flowers
in the sidewalk cracks of your lips.

i want to tell you how you make my heart uneasy and my mind unsure.
it hurts to know that i don't even need to tell you because you're already aware.

you like the power you get
from being the dishwasher and the winning opponent.
you like the feeling
of geometry being invisibly painted on your porcelain skin.
you like being the soil in which i delicately garden and harvest you.

i guess when you're done you can hang me up to dry
with my black eye being the only thing i get in return for loving you.

                                                           ­                                        -h.m.r.