pearly pink pencil erasers extending under your magicks
silky red blooms in the vortex of her cheeks
dull blue fire erupts
in her sleepy-lidded eyes, and lasts weeks.


she stuffed journal entries about you under her mattress
and drew arrow-pierced hearts on the windows collecting steam
and made jokes
out of every one of her most very secret dreams.


you may be tempted to philosophize and theorize every touch, or kiss
or force each blazing feeling into its own dark little cube
but don't be surprised
when the months go by, and you find that you are still love's rube.

there is no why.
it is what it is.