Save your bottle rocket.
I could set you on fire with my eyes,
start the smoldering using the heat
that rolled in with the clouds this morning
spitting sparks into the hollow valley
and burning brush from these blackened arroyos.
Secrets must be told closed-mouthed.
Whispered, drawn out long and slow
like holding plums in your mouth
and sucking them dry.
I don’t fear abandonment
but I do fear apathy and chill.
I worry about admiration that ends
in organized disappointment.
I want a love that gathers itself in flames
and burns itself to the ground every night
as the moon rises and calls our names.
Hands thick with paint,
songs on my lips and a swing in my hips,
I lose myself again,
turning myself inside out
again, just to feel something that isn’t there.
Lying to myself so as not to break
my own heart.
I fear my own low expectations
and growing old too fast,
losing the wild side while time spins
softly on a Saturday morning.
Pen strokes paper,
paintbrushes sunbathe in the sink,
and the desert light drapes itself into a curtain
across neat rows of beans and kale.
I wish for harvest.
I wish for lightning.
Remember how I took your hand
and led you to my room,
to that sweetness of candle and sigh?
I’m sure of who I am and who am not.
Beautiful and strong.
I speak the truth to myself, no matter how hard.
I am nurturing and soft. I get shit done.
I can’t promise the world but I can promise
that you will never be bored.