i will show how i take casual & embellish into:

Heartsick is not among my favorite
feelings. Nor is sadness due to the inability
to have the one I want, nor a billowing sheath
of perpetual lovelust wonder.
I gave you my words, scrawled out in the heat
of the night, darkness pressing onto my curved
back and curiousity swallowing my swollen heart.
The envelope skittered onto your desk and I had turned
away before I realized that you had picked it up,
cut it open, absorbed the delicately threaded words (much as
you have done to me without the slightest awareness).
You came after me,
calling my name quietly,
meeting my stationary form in the dusty damp hallway.
You thanked me, a deliriously serious and heartfelt
gaze decorating your face, and our bodies came together
in one sweet casual moment,
fitting perfectly
as I've known and worried they would.

embellishment:

You were hungry, you explained. So hungry, and I came at just the right moment
with a box stocked full of tantilizing treats.
You nearly grabbed the box
from my hands
your skin skimming my own
in your frantic sedentary beline for calories.
Filling a void, again and again,
I've watched you try to close the emptiness.
Your eyes dug into mine,
steady aqua shoving against yellow-green.
I wanted your hunger--
I wanted you to admit your hunger.
I am perceptive, you know this,
and we stalk the white elephant in the room
tripping into lines of vision, sprawling
into purposefully ignorant stares.
Tonight I will drink to the chance,
to the cinematic daydream of us,
to the I can see that murmur from our friend,
to the way you drove your gaze into me this afternoon,
to the off-handed smiles and spin-cycle flushes,
to the delerium brought on by your everything,
to how I anger you, and how you frustrate me,
and I will drink to the drink I hand you
in wind-tossed hope and pure,
heart-seizing possibility.

i'm not in love / so don't forget

I don't want to admit
that I like it when you call me baby.
And I won't tell you
that I smile when your tongue slips
and you call me sweetie.
A week, six months, a year.
Ready or not, we might come
as we did
over, and over, and over again.
I sang you eighties love songs
as my fingers played over the warm ocean between your thighs.
You laughed, the sunlight startled us,
and we remembered everything that's always been wrong
is fucking ---.

Won't you come and stay

No / yes / no

I dreamt of segue and transition, all the things we've lacked for five years. Off/on, pressure points blasted by full throttle passion. Yes/no/yes- you've never made up your mind. I broke the word happy over our restless flesh, the sweat drawing tension on my tattooed back. The word rained down like petulant raindrops; a midday reprieve from thunder-dance and you need space.

Where we pay homage to each verb tense, we rest easily in the past. We did, we were, it was, we had. I was. You were. We aren't.

This is a transference of desire. A repetition of never-could-be. Bad timing. Nothing wrong, and that's what's right/wrong.

I could stay here with you forever and be content.

Your mouth stole my lips, my breath, my wary response. The silence robbed my sarcasm, my witty heart-hidden reply. Your fingers pushing through my hair, small brown eyes shut against the glare of sunshine showering over us. I have no remedy for the sickness that's eaten us, the cataclysmic notion that we could be anything more than what we've already been (disaster).

A gold star, a lick of communication. A first.

I have no strings to bind your hands. You won't let me fuck up.

I saw her this morning, and all I could think of was you.
I can't believe I just admitted that.