i'm a little drunk right now, which means i'll try

to write you love

poems. but the stars are spinning and

i'm still shy. but the hollow of

your neck is where i'd like to plant

this rose-stained mouth, in hopes

that wildflowers will start to

bloom. but i still feel a flush like august sun in

my ribcage when clumsy fingers unbutton

these clothes. but the freckles 

on your skin make constellations trailing

toward places i'd follow

you to. but the last time i cracked

myself open, i bled

more than i expected. but you make

me wonder if now it's just

red wine.