I am tracing vagary in the frost
your cold voice left against my window.
Like a hoarder, you are a pile of National Geographic magazines.
I'm staring at your naked ribs, unable to throw you away.

Love is like the physics required for time travel.
I may not understand the science behind it
but, I like the idea of going to the future with you.
I want my mouth on you in a flying DeLorean.

I know you're dizzy with infatuation, right now
Riding someone else's marry-go-round.
But, anyone can fall in love on the playground,
I do my lovemaking in the library.

Like hypodermic needles to shark skin
You will not let me pierce you.
I want, so badly, to bleed into your veins,
Hoping you feel the fervor that runs through me.

Wearing a simple tunic, slingshot in hand
I want to take down Philistine giants who defy our army of yearning.
I will hurl stones of young love
And leave all adversary Goliaths face down in the mud.

I'm addressing letters to you
as a way to keep record of how well I languish.
And maybe what I want isn't love,
but rather, relief from the sting you leave when you're withdrawn.

I know, we're all just trying to find the person we wish we were.
Sometimes, it takes an outside perspective to see what we're becoming.
I like the way you look at me with those salt water eyes –
Deep, blue, overflowing with contingency.

Like out-of-work models talking to handsome rich men,
I'm dripping wet and vain.
I'm not sure if I'm using you as a mirror or a lake,
But, regardless, I want to dive into you and watch how the water ripples.

You're the summer buzzed muse I was looking for
Eyes locked, I told you I wanted love and I meant it when I said it.
But, I say a lot of things.
Often times, I don't know what they mean.

Let's tear across suburban countrysides,
planting seeds in the front porch flowerpots of chance.
I will lay you against wet napkins and watch as your naked body grows on my windowsill,
stretching perfect limbs towards the light.

I want to be in love with you
or, at the very least, to feel less like a clock, dismantling.
Like scouts watching little leaguers with wicked jump shots,
I want to see the potential of it all.

So, for now, I'll keep writing down words in the shape of Colt revolvers
And wear them on my hip - locked, loaded, and ready to fire.
An echoing bang off the deserted city we once lived in.
The soft chant of ghost town denizens,

"I found you once. I will find you, again."