Engine

Oh, I can't do this, can I?
write about you honestly with all
the pain, distress, and lust that coils
inside the grip of an abundant book shelf?!

I aspire to be possessed by the
intensity of the present-- wearing a plump, dark hat
with a nonsensical feather, so auspicious it smiles!
Such flirtatious buttons winking with every
press of the wind from
the push of your eyebrows each time
this nervous unknown bounces off.

And I wonder, how do you see me?

Am I covered in a desolate dial tone
with a gasp loosely wrapped around it?
Or does the decisive firm grip of a Hello
over power the blue lines on the spiral page?
The unknown is most arrogant dressed by me;
stubborn, it demands the certainty of adventure,
otherwise refusing color.

But your cotton is woven simply and most lovingly--
soft White but loud in its demand for care.
I wish to be sewn at the seams by you,
shamelessly dived into, twirled, discovered and uncovered,
buried by the needle of the strength of a soldiers heart.