You shoot me a mere glance, while I’ve zeroed in on
my twiddled thumbs, but my peripheral vision
fires a snapshot of your energy’s self-directing, and
I straddle it. I revisit it alone on the toilet, in the recliner.

I stare the mere fact that you love me in the face,
my shoulders relaxed but square, like a flashing neon
light that signs how I’d not deny your connection
cravings. I hold the gaze of your investment for longer

than your own fidgety ardor, accustomed to crumbs,
might expect. I rub my thumbs across your protection’s
forehead. I use my knuckles to push the stress away
from your interest’s cheeks. I grip your devotion’s chin,

teasing it lightly between my pointer and middle fingers,
tracing above your loyalty’s upper lip, and I kiss it, I
mouth it, like a twenty-year-old devouring an orange
whole—with all the repressed desire of an overgrown

child, used to strings of pith dangling between thumbs
and pointer fingers above her snapping maw, used to
even your own withholding from me of love’s security,
used to, with it, the denial of our freedom.

first feat. in Nightshade Lit Mag