I need to love you,
before I write about you.
Imagination
can be stale. Forgive me but,
I can’t help but stare.
Narrators don’t speak like you.
Each sentence pulses
profanity. “Fuck this, that.”
You want to be judged.
Words can’t mold the way you walk,
talk, gaze at them, me.
You try to get me angry.
Keep your hands joke-filled, ready
to poke at my spine
just to see if it bends, breaks.
I think it will be
better if I created
my own character.
Maybe I’ll steal your blue eyes.
I have never heard
you laugh nor seen you smile.
The more I fall for
fiction, the more you stare back
at me, wanting our
eyes to lock again (Fuck it).