I can't stop myself today.
Everything should be about watered down coffee,
saving the world
pulling my hair out
and getting in bed by nine.
I can't stop thinking about
hands on hips
apologetic coos
plump ruby reds next to my neck
as I slowly learn to dance your dance.
That paced, tip-toeing waltze
coy, flirtatious, powerfully aloof.
I've tried to picture you apologetic,
kittenishly excused,
even vulnerable.
But I'm starting to understand your strength
your immunity to my faux-heartache and scorned frustration.
You like having all the cards when I tip my hand.
I can tell from that smile.
And when I finally break down and beg you-
you'll sink those fangs right into me.
I never stood a chance.
If I had the world I'd give it to you.
But right now all the star-gazing words and virginal sighs I have are yours.
I can't imagine you as anything less than you are.
It's that steel pragmatism and divine idealism that makes you a great partner
rather than a casual lover.
Makes me hate you even more for not needing me,
but the kind of hate I get from a rival's challenge
an equal's move in chess.
Another well-placed dance step.
Dare you to call it in tonight.
Say something huskily dripping with passion for me
you don't even have to mean it.
Just to call a bluff- throw me off the rhythm.
I dare you to let me lead
and let me see that side of you
that you swear is there.
