an honest list of things i want from you:
make french toast with me.
pull a quarter from behind my ear.
to go on a roadtrip, during which there is a moment when we stand on top of a hill or mountain or rock and look out over a field or town or forest or desert and, without speaking, you reach out and take my hand so that even if we are small, we’re together.
be happy in a way that doesn’t make me unhappy.
I slide my index finger nail
into the floral pattern
engraved on the dark wooden dresser
lost to the careful groove,
the dusty path in the furniture face,
until I reach the edge,
and flick the grey clump of history
I have accumulated
against the price tag
tethered to a rusted hinge,
that garish blight
by l.r. mitchell
Baby, i could’ve stared at our cocks
in that mirror all night,
no poetry, no laughter,
just mutually rapt
in mute genital amazement,
like that photo of Ginsberg and Orlovsky,
because i was a hungry monster,
throbbing and rigid with id,
because i was seventeen stupid
and didn’t know anything
but a burning
which made me want
to punch my bedroom walls
because i could not have you
outside of the sanctuary context
because i could not touch you.