I dip Eros’s quill in the inkwells of my soul
and drip sweet nothings shrouded in passion
and clouded with the irreducible musings
or a schoolboy in love.
It’s a messy business
but it keeps the pretty mess busy.
Our minds are connected like psychic soup-can phones,
and they transmit missing missives over a secure schoolyard wire.
Our hearts are curious fingers
caught in Love’s Chinese finger trap,
and I for one don’t want any wiggle room.
Our bodies can play hide-and-seek
but I anticipate the endgame,
and the hoped-for dallying dog-pile that ensues,
all amorous limbs and limber amour.
Our souls were playing tag when you saw me today,
but I’ve yet to see you,
so I’ll continue to play.
You’re it, kid.