there is a futility to writing

love poems, you will
never want to read them
again after he is gone and
no one wants to hear you
pining over perfect somethings:
shoulders or the curves
of lips or arc of necks
beneath sheets in the
morning, so I don't write odes to these things.
you can find them anywhere. this
is a new and revolutionary sort of
love and I will not
write you another word about it now.

Yes, I have noticed that you
want me, though you may sit just
behind me I have seen the way you
watch my hand when it is resting on
my thigh and I have seen you
regard me like that, psychology class
I nap during movies and sometimes
you suggest that I could find someone
to appreciate my greatness. sometimes
you suggest things that make me want
to take off my clothes but of course
there is no greatness. there is only
the way my legs tingle, shy, in
the places where you are looking