... Running With the Streetlights ...

You Are an Exit Wound.

The Extra Shot of Tequila.

The Tangled Knot of Hair That Has to Be Cut Out.

You Are the Cell Phone Ringing in a Hushed Theatre.

Pebble Wedged in the Sole of a Boot.

The Bloody Hangnail.

You Are [Just This Once]

You Are Flip Flops in a Thunderstorm.

The Boy’s Lost Erection.

A Pen Gone Dry.

You Are My Mother’s Nightmare.

My Father’s Mirage.

You Are a Manic High

Which is to Say:

You Are a Bad Idea.

You Are Herpes Despite the Condom.

You Are “I Know Better.”

You Are Pieces of Cork Floating in My Wine Glass.

You Are the Morning After
-Whose Name I Can’t Remember-
Still in My Bed.

The Hole in My Rain Boots.

Vibrator With No Batteries.

You Are “Shut Up & Kiss Me.”

You Are Naked Wearing Socks.

Mascara Bleeding Down Laughing Cheeks.

You Are the Wrong Guy Buying Me a Drink.

You Are the Typo in an Otherwise Brilliant Novel.

Sweet Talk Into Unprotected Sex.

The Married Coworker.

My Stubbed Toe.

You Are Not New or Uncommon.
Not Brilliant or Beautiful.

You Are a Bad Idea.

Rock Star in the Back Seat of a Taxi.
Burned Popcorn
Top Shelf- At Half Price.

& You Are Everything I Want.

You Are a Poem I Cannot Write.

A Word I Cannot Translate.

You Are an Exit Wound.

A Name I Cannot Bring Myself

to Say Aloud.

The Never Fading Scar.