By William Maxheimer
The sweet, sweet torment I feel when
I once, again, think about you: I see
you and take a week or two not
to be infatuated with you, still.
There are things that you say that are like
getting marshmallows back out of a piggy bank;
they stick. I cannot fully eradicate these from my
memory. I replay them over and over trying to
hear just the way they came from your feline mouth
I finally, half-way, forget But, like carrying marbles
in a fishnet, as few as two too few words you write
some-how bring your everything right back.
Seeing you, I clinch, force hands down
to my side for fear of trying to pull
you so near. I want to be weak.
I wonder how hard you would
slap me should I move in
for your kiss.