But, Sometimes

​My hands are violent and my hands
want to write a poem about you. A
poem that says I’m possessive and
I want everything you have. Here’s
the pencil, love in my mouth rising
like Nevada heat. I keep making
promises to be good, to keep my
hands to myself but, sometimes, your
perfect sanctuary body; I keep bouncing
back like a boomerang. Why do these
little insect bodies crave love so much?
I don’t know. I can’t tell the difference
between my heart beating and my
wanting you so badly that my chest is
a paper plane, air-drunk. I am falling out
of the sky. The way you coax thunder from
my knees. I keep yearning to kiss you like a
breadcrumb, this dirty bandaid mouth,
deep throat Atlantic. Do not take this the
wrong way but I think I love you like a
stampede. Metro city train. I am trying to
be quiet the best way I know how.
Sometimes, I want to go back to the front
seat of your car, put my hands on you
again, be something beautiful you wanted
to touch. Love is that place where the wound
never closes. Maybe this is it. Maybe all
we are ever good for is pining after the
things we can’t have.