no matter how humble and capitulated my karma
that got me

not knowing why we’re here, both
feeling better {more mended} than we ought,
but (well) we are— so now what?

Could continue to

tilt your forehead forward & dangle (towards me) your tendrils—
wires from your worried mind,
woven and then unwound, tensed and
pulled to a part
in a place that would bisect your fractured happiness/sadness.

Could continue to

coif your
coils, that then cast shadows as black as
Basquiat’s blackest oils
over flayed layers of tender flesh (fresh pinks
& reds, tans) left untended in the path of [you] my little pugilist

Could continue to

be concerned, but

—how I care for you I cannot calculate.

So let’s just continue talking because

tongues need language and listening
more than licking and kissing
right now & “shoosh!” me all you want with those lips
puckered in an impermeable pout but [they] yet
remain their pulled, voluptuous, swollen selves
—I declare and [I] turgid in my own style,
slide a smile sneakily off the profile of my face while
gazing amazed at the flush surface of your features—

how’s that for the fatalistic one? with fun in his furrowed frown;
grouchiness in his curvaceous bone-structure; *twinkle* in the eyes &
all that.

No absence of brawniness but (a behemoth in brain only) really,
I won’t speak in concrete terms if you won’t either

—how ‘bout it?