Guilty pleasure 

I can be angry for days,Swearing off you like sweets on New Year’s Day
only to return to comfortable indulgence before the week is out.
You’ll say something that could pass for affectionate.
It’s not what I deserve, I know.
But I have long known that the universe of love is not a meritocracy.
You’ll say something that just has the faintest taste, the slightest hint.
Not even the overture, just the orchestra tuning up in velvety discord,
The hazy precursor to the precursor to the prequel,
and there I am again clutching the crumbs of undecided attention,
of words with imagined allegiance.
And there I am again.
Yours.
Standing in the yolky pool of light on the street corner pavement,
wondering if you can hear my heart do its best impression of a battering ram,
wondering if you can see everything tucked right underneath my skin,
the wanting that rises, like steam.
Can you see the oceans of words that I have swallowed?
Here in the light the color of your hair, the color of the sun,
there is so much to give living in these bones.
Can you see that I am caverns of waiting?
Living the halfway version of the poems I wrote when I was 16 and didn’t know that it wouldn’t be enough, didn’t know that he would make me a space to be filled, a house trying to be a home.
You should know that that there are poems I haven’t written yet, there are endings I haven’t imagined, but in every single one, I have learned how to unravel without ruin and the love is always enough.