I love your smile in the harsh light
—the rotting raspberry swell of your lips.

Often I wonder what’s the color of your soul—
In my mind, it’s chameleon,
Ever-changing, always dull
—like the pale gold stillness
of your honey pond eyes.

I want to feel you,
Feel the blood and bones beneath your skin,
All warm and rough and flesh
—solid, like bark,
(I’m so glad you’re not a ghost)

I want to be your sweater—
Coffee mug,
Collared shirt,
Black leather jacket with the nicks on the back,
Water bottle,
Hat.

So in short, I’m sorry that I stole your pen,
And used it to write this poem.
(I swear I didn’t mean to)
—Besides, it’s not worthy of my hand.