by Abigail Kirby Conklin
You weren't the first one
to get in my bed and mention the writing.
Nor will you be the last, I suspect.
No one seems to learn from Taylor Swift.
Mind you, I can't make good
on your threat yet.
Writing you brings into focus
colors and shapes
still too sharp to look at.
I don't want to feel
all that I worked so hard to not.
But, of course; no one can stop
you from letting you
Soon enough, soon enough,
this won't flare when looked at,
and then I'll sit down to what
there is to say. The soothing, in particular,
of your angles under tight skin
along an anxious jaw.
You brought it up,