i want to be a mantis shrimp
simply so i can examine your eyes
because the color defies me.
a few more shades on the spectrum
and i’ll easily define the hue.
nevermind the tears. i know, i know.
two and a half days is not enough.
i had to go, i had to go.
two and a half sandwiches,
two and a half dinners.
santa cruz is pretty,
but not as pretty as you.
i want to be a pistol shrimp,
so i can defy physics,
punch a hole through water
to relieve my suffering rage.
i picture us as a triptych,
me on the left hugging your waist,
you in the middle hiding your face,
nothing but blankness on the far-right page.
route 17 is winding and breathtaking,
but not as breathtaking as you.
i’m memorizing diminutives,
pet names and sweet talk.
never been a vocal man,
always been quick to balk.
i like the way your toes feel,
the shorts you sport, your little socks.
i want to curl up like a cooked shrimp,
bend my neck into your hair,
let you occupy the space between
my clavicle and bare chest,
the spot you nestle into perfectly.
not many things have worked with me,
not many at all.
nevermind my spoiling your guitar,
all my dark notes,
my minor chords.
i’m happy to feel natural,
not coarse, locked down, forced.
i’ve said a lot already;
forgive the rambling,
but here’s one more:
i’ve held a lot of hands,
none as right as yours.
