You asked me for a love-lorn metaphor so I told you Georgia O’Keefe looked at my flower and out came a Picasso, your tongue is a Rorschach test to my ink-blot heart, I drew your legs around me like a spiral staircase to break my neck on. I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to your confessionals, heart beating like a Kahlo self portrait of the artist’s anatomical: neither missteps nor mistakes but missions before sunrise. I asked you what you wanted (knowing the answer in my tonsil hockey fantasy league draft) dodger of past recruitment. Now give me your paci- fist. I miss the kind of fucking where we kiss at the end so I quit my games of teenage pretend and admit it: you’ve loved me as long as I’ve loved you. This is what we were never ready for and we’re still not really now but I want to smell your morning breath and see you without makeup on and find your toenail clippings on the bathroom floor, wonder what your mother thinks of me now, quickly spiral when you’re withholding and to cry when I miss you. I want all that pain right now, here, with you.