you reach across and tell me
seventeen syllables isn’t enough
she glances from the other side of the bar
and she knows
yet she doesn’t know

this is how it always is
words tossed in inebriation
through passion and desire
for all that is lost,
all that is yet to gain

i want to reach out
and pull you to that booth
(i will, give me a moment)
because you are all that i was
the inner child spilling out
the full-bodied woman bursting through
because you are all that i am
with this unpaid art
my semi-religious followers
and seventeen syllables short
of everything i can’t quite publish