089: veronica

i’m sitting in your lap.
and i’ve got my arms wrapped around your neck
and i’m looking into your eyes
and gently tousling the hair on the back of your head.
and my body, my brain, we’re all wondering:
“this surge of energy knotting up my chest,
is this love? or is it just adrenaline coursing through,
expecting sex or connection?”
the laptop has some netflix show on.
we ate pasta, rigatoni in a robust marinara,
the kind with chunks of tomato and garlic,
mushrooms and basil, the kind that fills you up.
i can smell you, the soft scent of dinner
mixed with whatever deodorant you’re wearing,
as well as that irresistible smell of man that some men have.
i’ve been with so many men in varying degrees of “been”
that i couldn’t tell you what love is anymore,
that every time it creeps near me it wears a different mask,
sometimes catches me unawares,
sometimes wrestles me to the ground
like a luchadore.
with you i am silent, a purring kitten,
reading an old magazine while you write
platitudes to old girlfriends on your blog.
i get it; you’ve learned something from all of them.
the lurch in the pit of my stomach
is only a reaffirmation of this strange love for you
that bubbles up like alka-seltzer
dropped in a glass cup of still water.

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