A Particular Kind

The Kind

I want the kind
where you hold my hand. Tight.
That gesture
when you guide me
through the crowd –
No body checkers allowed.
Yes, a man has violently kissed me…
once in a while.
Grabbed my waist and other stuff.
But I really want the kind
where you race to pick up
the objects I drop.
Because I saw you point your finger
to graze my wrist
when you gave it back to me.
I want to sit at the so-so diner
and fiddle with s&p shakers.
I’ll keep checking
that my straw is still in it’s glass too.
I don’t even use a straw.
I will constantly return
to the smell of your car.
Even how you’ve dripped coffee on your console and left it.
I like your busy messes.
And I’ll let you take me for coffee,
over and over…and yea? Totally.
But what I really want
is to make coffee.
So that I can pour the cream.
Prepare it.
Present it.
Taste this – is it okay?
And can I borrow your chapstick?
Because I want to mesh cells.
Yes, I’d rather have this kind
than the other. Fin.



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