Getting into her pants hasn’t happened yet,
regardless of what I tell my friends,
sleeping in her bed strings evenings
as one replayed memory.
Luck hasn’t given me a break
with its doubtful river of water mixed with oil
between her butter fingers.
The nightmares I discovered in sympathy
were the dreams she recited in the mirror.
For this guilt, I should feel blessed.
Of all I do best, I hate to say there’s no blame left.
A love song tickles my ears on the radio,
juggling lyrics in a recycle bin.
Love is subjective, or so I thought.
The statues of forgetfulness rain like hell.
Love fits one size.
She said It’d take time to know the one she loved.
Waiting to be your first is killing me, so kill me softly.

(© 2022 AC)