You could never tell by your voice the way its velocity drips like the thickest desire you’ve ever heard or the way it makes the girl in me want your laugh to make her into a woman.
Sometimes I see the boy that lives in you hiding in the black of your Milky Way smile.
Your words.
Around the “right crowd” like poker chips you manufactured in the factory of your skull, you give them away like recyclable material but what do you get at the end of the night but corner less, plastic thoughts.
And you m********* to the sound of complacency because it’s the only love you’ve ever known.
But your words took the virginity of my closed mind one night at a burger place and in those two hours I had gone further than I had ever gone with anyone else, intellectually.
I’ve looked into the mirror in your eyes and seen my least favorite version of me.
Because truth is, I don’t deserve you.
I inhale the galaxies that roll off your tongue when you indulge me with conversation and I regret to inform you that I have nothing to give you in return except scrambled-egg poetry and a an after-thought, nocturnal lunatic.
I admit that the girl you see loses control thrice a week to the dominant echo of a reoccurring
Nightmare.
The girl that lives in your eyes is trapped behind lies in an effort to be what I think you deserve.
But I hope to someday, be, because the boy in you is the man for me.