Nest: love poetry #24

I don't want to meet your family.

I just want to hide with you in your room

and eat the snow from underneath your nails

and sweat with our eyes closed

while the whole world of relevance and animals lives outside the
door.

I don't want to hear about your job.

I just want to hold your underwear above your head

and make you jump for them

and put my whole hand in your mouth

and stroke the inside of your throat

and massage your heart and aid your breathing- squeezing you.

I don't want to discuss current events or media.

I just want to pull your hair out

and break your fingers

and lick your tears when you grab my chest and back

you're crying because holding me is painful with your broken fingers,
but you are compelled to hold me anyway.

I don't want to shop for gifts for one another.

I just want to tear everything we own to pieces

and make a big nest in a corner of your room out of ruptured
furniture

and hide there with you

and be your mother until the morning

and let you be my baby until the morning

and let you be my bro bro and my pop pop

until some miserable bastard interrupts us and we make him regret
it.

He'll regret it because we make the same kind of mess,

and his mess is something else- hurtful and regrettable.

I'll refuse to believe there is more than this- that you could want
more than this.

If we move, we'll lose.