Poem-esq.

You're like layers of an onion with nothing inside it. I peeled and peeled away-- thought you might have tried to hide it.  But it appears that over years you've consciously decided to be center-less, to only show disinterested interest. I crave so much more than this.

Nothing I throw sticks to your teflon smile. It's a hot show, but what's cooked slides right off. 

You're a hull without a nut. You're a fruitless husk.  You're a shell with no mollusk. 

When the melody tickles my elbows— that’s when I’m gonna start dancing. Like a kite, or a lost piece of looseleaf, or your hat on a rollercoaster, I’ll be swept up. Sure, I can hold my bottom down on the bench— but the rythym will bounce my knees, pop from my phlanges, and eventually induce a most pleasant epilepsy. The passion seeping in these leaks, this fiercesome joie de vivre, can feel over-exposed to me— like a baudy hibsicus bloom splayed for a beehive. When the beat vibrates hot in my elbows, and I survey a room of stone-chalant faces, I don’t get how they don’t feel what I can’t hide.

Sometimes I wish I’d stay still, keep feeling on the inside— but these sparks show my fire hasn’t died.

Oh I think I knew but didn’t really know you’d be here. And now you are fidgetingly dancing before me. I forgot how funny, how animated you can be.

So many words and so different than my usual type.

We could have been so much I think in my mind. I bet you’re the the funniest person I’ve met or will.

“Well, it’s getting late and I guess it’s time to go home.”

“I’ll run into you again soon I’m sure.”

I’m done with all you sour pink berry boys, you chewy too-new potatoheads.

Not another unsnappable string bean baby. Don’t want some spiky green pineapple guy.

Give me a red, ripe man. One that’s been under the sun long enough to have succumbed to some sweetness and the heavy hanging of almost too much juice— even if it means a bruise or two.

Say you’d rather stay on the vine? That’s fine.

and this is typical.

Perhaps I grabbed a razor wrong, or scraped my thumb against a box cutter— who can know?

I found my toothpaste with the mayo in the fridge the other day; perhaps my teeth had craved an extra-cool menthol blast.

Right now I’m plain-faced sitting in an elegant New Orleans hotel room on the distinguished 19th floor, on the eve of a conference— my bright floral make-up bag must be relaxing with my cats on the bathroom counter.

But I remember each self-respecting twang of the second-to-last song of the third act I heard Thursday night.

And I always put her guilt-giving eyes exactly where I know to find them to remind me. And if I could accidently leave his sweetgravelazaleawarmnight smell at the restaurant, I would.

The last time I opened my old pink and orange polka-dotted umbrella, my gently worn heart also sprang open and kissed you.

And it changed your mind— at least about walking me to my car, at least for a minute— and we were close together and joking and out of the rain.

The first kiss was a choice. The second was a delicious impulse, perhaps from the part of me that knew already.

Your fingers are still pressing into my right hip. We know you liked it— at least for approximately forty seconds.

"I don’t believe in umbrellas," you said before leaving into the dark, steady drizzle.

Me, I believe in umbrellas, and insurance, and yellow lights.

I am usually careful and bet almost sure. Your grinning eyes asked me to up the ante. Your lips dared me to double-down.

But your brain— your umbrella-averse cerebrum— wants to flirt but not feel, won’t avoid the raindrops, but would rather not kiss among them or anywhere (with me anyways— I do not rule out that some other cresting wave might knock you off your knees into the tide).

I forced you to scribble a napkin-back calculus— turns out I’m not worth it to you. I wish you would check your math, or, better still, break your pen and just feel those two smiling kisses and the laughing by the moon and that it can be easy.

Now one conversation and kiss is not flowing to possibly another, is not following some slow course— that of course might be dammed at any point— towards seeing if we are able to slip into each others’ comfortable ways of functioning.