“Shit,”
you say.
“I practically just said it,”
You frantically change
The radio station,
Searching for something
To wash over us
And eradicate the moment,
“All you need is love-“
Blares from the speakers.
Your hands fumble
For another pre-set.
“You’ll LOVE
Our hot deals-!”
Your fingers scurry nervously
To the next station,
“You love, love, love,
When you know I-“
Your fingertip leaps
With such force
You miss your pre-set
Altogether,
Altogether,
The radio is off.
“Damn,”
you say.
“I just can’t catch a break,”
You look at me,
A little defeated,
A little helpless,
Eyes turning down at the corners.
But there’s an assured smile
In there somewhere.
(The confidence of knowing
What you
Cannot yet articulate audibly.)
Cannot yet articulate audibly.)
“You can withhold it,”
I say.
“For as long as you like,”
You look at me strangely,
As I look at the road,
As if I might call you
Indian giver
If you do not relinquish
Everything
Now that you have given me
A taste.
“It is yours,”
I tell you.
I am hoping one day
It might
Be mine, too.
