My left ear lobe is having an
allergic reaction to the chemicals
of my bullet-studded earring while
my right ear lobe is just fine with the
bow and arrow that's speared through.

My lungs are anaphylactic response to
the silence of your words and the nasal
voice that whinnies out of your throat.

I am not unaware of your sudden decision
to grow out the raven-colored hair out of its
buzzed stage much like how I understand
your need to refuse my query of,
"What are you?"

I admire your commitment to further your
thinkings, the reach of your leaves.

I'd kiss the state flag you have tattooed
on your forearm if it meant getting closer to you.