"This Ain't No Fucking Sing Along"

Wander in, just
before the creak of the door.
I see you, little moon.
Stretched
across the floors I walk,
the home I live in,
I see you.
And you’re aware, certainly
of the places I’ve carved as my own,
and still
damn it, I see you.

And the trouble with that is,
despite the many hours,
days and days
climbing, sleepless
from nightfall;
despite the tan my skin has taken
a comfortable affection
for the sun –warm, constant-
when darkness plays
the right song,
I see you, little moon.

And what kind of poet would I be
if I didn’t at least once
liken myself to the tides?

Six Letter Word for Dirty, Immoral

My therapist thinks I’ve romanticized you.
(Newsflash: I have.)

Blames an active childlike imagination,
my need for fun, and a past
of repressed spontaneity.
Tells me there is safety in the fantasy
and you’re a sexy-lunatic.

My personal opinion is
that he has trivialized this whole situation.

Also, that he is an asshole.

Although the sound of your laughter
is really quite unnerving.