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I want to be with someone
who slow dances with me,
who calls me beautiful,
who gently touches my hair.
I want to be with someone
who sees my body as strong,
whose eyes linger longer
over my smile,
whose lips share compliments
and occasional constructive criticisms.
I want to switch-up my language,
twist my own words around
to tell a story with fewer clichés,
more showing, less telling.
So, I want to be with someone
publicly and privately,
in small, fevered dreams.
I want to make love,
fumbling awkwardly,
giggling through pushing
masses of hair away
from excited eyes,
wanting mouths.
I want to be held in a spell
like a long drag off a cigarette.
I want someone's hand
on the small of my back
as he [thinks he] allows me to lead,
and when I get lipstick
on his collar
I want him
to know
that he is mine.

Radio Edit (Part 1)

"So," she started with a small sigh. "What happened between you and Steph?" This was the first time she said her name without rolling her eyes afterward, so I could tell she cared.

"Well, she was the type of woman who preferred P.I.L. to Sex Pistols, Big Audio Dynamite to The Clash. So, she had big problems."

"Oh, wow. I had no clue, Tony. I'm so sorry," she choked, holding back tears. "I really had no idea. You think you know someone..."

"Yeah," I said. "And to think we made out... And I introduced her to all of my friends..."

I let the tears flow from me. Holding them back would be inauthentic. I used my shirt to wipe my cheeks.

"Come here," she cooed, and she held me close to her, her heartbeat like a song by O.M.D.

Imaginary Boys

I wrap my arms around
imaginary boys because
ghosts don't hurt me.
Pretending never hurt me.
The signs were aflame,
scorching reality.
My loving imagined
the harshest:
Oh, he's frightened.
Oh, he has innocent secrets.
In reality, he took secrets
from the innocent,
shaped them into proud armor,
and I threw up,
coughed up bile
until I imagined
myself a child,
fingers shining and bubbling
from a hot stove.
Pretending never hurt me.
The elegance of lost frames,
lost information,
that's what hurts me:
the missing threads,
and I am no tapestry maker.
He had kissed my forehead
as if I were a child
and it should have been
a warning.
All of this, I confide in you,
and you make it
about yourself.
Your anger, the stove I touch.
This is why I must stick to
imaginary boys,
with smiles and warm arms,
warm in my dreams,
warm from the fire
of my nightmares.

A Keeping

And he held her because she asked him to, and he told her she was a beautiful and wanted woman, because he knew it had been years since those things were true.

On the other side of the shadowed room, a small music box sat alone. He gingerly opened it to hear the promise he tried to make.

Once the melody clicked incomplete, he didn't bother turning the box over. He didn't wind the key, as if it were too much trouble, as if it were too slow a release for a pleasure that should be instant. He closed the box shut a little too forcefully, a little too quickly.

He turned to the woman, now a frightened girl, and tried to promise her a future of music and beauty, but she knew the melody was over.

With Age

Yellow dreams,
shapes of curtains
holding small arguments.
Cradle large, sad eyes.
Cradle large, sad mouth.
Whisper public knowledge,
and scream every secret,
a tickle in the throat,
a daring charge,
static in the heart.
If this is the death knell,
if this is the bed my
fullness will know,
then I am ready.
Cradle complex shoulders,
with the weight of broken things,
lies yellow around the edges with age.