What I wanted to do was kiss you.
What I wanted to do wasn’t chaste.
What I wanted to do was rattle mountains.
What I wanted to do was profane.

Your dissent has become
a familiar aphrodisiac.
If you bottled it,
I could smell it
and feel forever hopeful.

I am enamored of
your shadow self
which I have
manufactured
from fragments
of Colin Firth,
Chekhov,
Edgar Allen Poe
and the man
my mother
once
thought
my father was.

My nothing satisfies more
than your something
so please remain
in your resting state
of perpetual ambivalence.

What I wanted to do was profane.
What I wanted to do was rattle mountains.
What I wanted to do wasn’t chaste.
What I wanted to do was kiss you.

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