this is what i have right now, here:
pizza rolls that taste like blood,
tartar sauce that smells like hairspray.

when you arrive at my driveway, it's snowing
in june, white pollen from both sides in the car windows.
i smell you first, right before our lips hit,
and so
i remember exactly who you are.

we dance in the kitchen to your throat hum, charismatic
off-key as i kiss your adam's apple,
the iodized salt taste of your hairline sweat on my chapped lips
in the pizza place, with the redhead boy i went to high school with.
rubbing you through slippery work-out shorts
as you hold your own hands for my parents.

you you you
make my jaw hurt with smiling and tongue opportunities
i offered and you took,
less afraid, now, to be boy-typical.
tug my leg hairs, but gentle, with your fingers,
in the dark where james bond plays and the sheep blanket's too hot.
laugh to yourself mid-meditation as our legs go slappable numb.
you you you

this is what i have right now, here:
a direct deposit penny per page view,
me.
you have you and share it with me. refreshing, isn't it?

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Lena Judith Drake is the editor-in-chief of Breadcrumb Scabs magazine.