I. Passersby

I love
But is love
Had
When
One
Gives
And the other
Refuses to receive
At all?

I love
It stays
And
Gets
In
The
Way
Of
Passersby.

II. Clean

I trace the shapes
and colors
on your arms,
down
onto your damp
palm,
laying my
warm hand
against it,
clasping fingers
gently around
your skin.

Tell me how your day was.
Tell me what scared you.
Tell me what moved you.
Tell me how you want i—
Wait. No—

Let our bodies say
what our words
could not
for so long.

Tell me, but don’t confuse me.
Tell me, but don’t lie to me.
Tell me, but don’t bend me.
Tell me, but don’t hurt me.
Tell me, and love me clean.

In The Perks of Being a Wallflower,
I remember reading
we accept the love
we think we deserve.

And I know I deserve
yours.

And you deserve
mine,
clean.

Even through lapses
and spaces
created in between,

my soul
entwines with yours.

It is where
it wishes to be.

I have an old ache,

and it is something
I never want
to give to you,

something that does not belong
to me
or to you.

So I’m learning how
not to mirror my wounds
upon you.

In loving myself,
I am learning
to see clearly.

We both deserve love
that is good,
clean.

And I want to give you love
in a way
that won’t harm you.

Where we can both disarm
ourselves,

leave every weapon
we have in our arsenal
tucked away
in this life,

so we can learn to use
our words,
our hands,
our arms,
our lips

in every graceful
and tender way
they were meant
to be used.

We waited long enough.

Good things, no?

They happen
in time.

So let them happen,
love.