What I Say When I Say I Love You

Don’t you love caffeine buzzes? I do—

though I was a little loopy driving home.

It’s midnight every day and I still can’t

overcome my exhaustion with it. Please

tell me you stay up later than you should,

you live in the moment more than

it lives in you— I love you because

I don’t know you. I love the way Pepsi

trembles in my bladder like laughter

from the aftertaste

of a year-old joke.

We should go for a run

around the stars, swim in a black hole

with our eyes shut

all while on these chairs

that have stayed still

long enough to forget we’re on them.

You are right about believing in myself,

even when I’m dizzy on soda,

dripping slippery words

to the concrete. They seed each other

like a misshapen painting sold for 3 dollars

to a crack addict. But the art’s there.

Just as when you say you’re leaving

you leave a little clumsy with words

dropped out your eyes

and I sigh like a flower

that hasn’t found the courage

to ask for more sun: a little wilted,

but still here, still hoping

you’ll plant me in your pot.