she crosses her legs, and mouth half-open
i want them crossed around me,
i want to touch the pale snowsmooth of her shoulder,
want to taste the back of her neck, her fingertips,
see her whirpool wavy bleached-blonde hair held in frame
by my maroon pillow,
one gymnastic hand gently tracing a ray-gun line up my back—
--and sure, that’s truth, but truth, the virus
(and growing up, the disease)
experience, the mother of convention,
teaches me not to make a move,
not a sound—

but she has these eyes, the color of autumn sundown
--jaded eyes, bored eyes--
i’ve never touched her, she’s never heard my voice,
never looked at me, not even by accident
--see me, please--
let me know you , learn you,
with no pride left to lose, let me lose myself with you
are you following all of this?