A notecard, tucked in your back pocket.

I love the way you dance around this, delightfully
like a pearl-soft, peach-with-the-skin-on secret.
I love all the little words tumbling down, carefully
like beads of snow or capsules of fire.

I love it nearly enough to
resort to form, but you know me
better than that. So I
grind up my girlish guts
into a powder, blow the bits

into the air. Let them catch,
let them stick to your lingering lips.