You are so much of a mess that
I can’t make a good metaphor out of you.
A good poem from your fuck me face.
Lead pencil lies stencilled on grey matter
minds, frontal lobes
folded like sheets against the
sharp angles of a body
that doesn’t want to be held.
You are acute and I am obtuse,
I am reflex,
I am bending over backwards to make you love me
coming at it from different directions
like when you flip me around to get inside
from another angle.
We lie awake,
parallel bodies in too-big beds.