I fear
That when I am middle-aged
My lips will grow thin
And curl in
And you won't love me anymore.

Last night I went to a jazz concert
and I bought an eight dollar jar of cocktail nuts
during intermission
from which I only ate
the few wasabi peas I managed to pick out
in the dim of the theater.
I thought about you
and then my thoughts were interrupted
by trumpets and saxophones,
and I wished it could always be that easy.

The bottle doesn't
Love you back.

I have Psalm 20
memorized
because there is always someone sick.

When you show up at a party after exams
underdressed
and when you're tired
and your hair just looks a mess.

If you're driving me in autumn
and your nose is pink
or you've finished watching a game with the guys
and you're pouring the dregs of your beer down the sink.

When you tell me stories about your childhood
and I'm lucky enough to catch that glint in your eye
I might see a flash of your girlfriends past
and remind you you're a lucky guy.

On longs walks up the stairs with you
and you tell me we should take a rest
you seem a little harried then
but this is when I look my best

Don't open the door for people
when they arrive

Open it when you know
they're on their way.

How long would it take for me to grow?
My feet were half the size of yours
And yet they fit so perfectly together
But that was a long time ago,
And since those days I've grown for the better.
You and I, we were tight
And I lived only for your sweet insight;
I couldn't conquer darkness without being shown light
And mornings spent alone in the park
You offered constant but candid snark
And you helped me lose my fear of the dark.