I love the friction of pens’ rubber fingerrests
draped on my middle right finger
smoothing away the ghosts
of my knuckle.
I love the tickling waves of ambulance alarms
bawling in the empty darkness:
reminders I’m not alone,
close to buckle.
I love the taste of solitary Friday nights
dripping from vintage doll eyes,
adrift bottled messages and
I love the kickjump hijinks lodged deep in my chest,
dancing with her miraged cipher
and furs ruffled.
I love that arduous odor of self-immolation,
of soul-spun infatuation
smoking upward and out,
heady and subtle.
I love the obloquial bitterness my tongue
sprinkles on unsweetened coffee;
the contrary complaint,
I love the unknowing, the brain’s self-denial
pouring into stained wineglasses
drunk to conjoin us two,
drunk to uncouple.
I love falling into this space, between you and me,
the hole growing larger by the second,
its borders expanding
so lovely, so supple.
11.23.12, Annie Haden