Love and I swap secrets in
the darkest parts of well-lit rooms.
He’s the shiest lover I’ve ever seen–
kisses the lip of his coffee mug,
runs his fingers over everything.

Love is softer than I thought he was.
I always talk of love with teeth.

But when he sits across the table and
taps his foot against my knee, suddenly
I can’t remember why I ever felt that way.
Love is a mess of softness in the spring.

He’s a weepy drunk–hides his head
in his hands and whimpers
while the world spins. I don’t think he’s ever
said a cruel word that he actually meant.

Love is so delicate.

He falls asleep with his face in the crook of my neck.
I wonder if my pulse finds a way into his dreams–
I wonder if Love ever dreams about me.

Love and I go drinking every week.
We meet at the ugliest bars on the dirtiest streets.
He says there’s beauty in the rotten things.
The whiskey’s good but god, it stings.

Love chases shots with sweeter things.
He knows the wicked worst in me.
So we talk a while.
And then we trade.
And I am Love.

And he’s Afraid.