Kind of Gross and Weird, I Guess

i don’t write you poetry anymore.

now i love you in chinese takeout 

and gas station iced tea,

i love you in red imprints of my teeth

in your skin. 

the dog we’re watching slobbers 

on your knee and he’s never 

loved someone like this before.

i can

relate.

my legs stick out past the end of the bed 

when i lean my head on your chest. (i used to think

i was too tall to curl up 

into your five-foot-zero embrace.)

you left pop-tart crumbs

on my sheets.

i love you in the tissues that you pile 

on the nightstand in the spring, careful construction of

a pollen graveyard.

i love you in chapped lips and cold 

feet and that picture of a dog 

that you think is so fucking funny.

you love me like a chimp loves,

picking at my dead skin

and kissing me after.