You overlook me. I look over you. Over you. Over you.

Not over you.

And I feel feelings that I dealt with already. Remember dealing with this long ago familiar feeling.

Remember the smooth line of your back meeting your hips, descending into your pants, belt low, perfect skin, precious skin I would protect with my very life. I would guard that line so I could look at that line again and again like my property, like it belonged to me. Like the life forever owed to the someone saves it.

I would save you.

I take this uncertainty and new insecurity. What do they call this: intimacy (dependence?).

I take this disgusting unwelcome emotion and turn my private anguish into poetry. Typing landscapes, spellchecking metaphor, placing commas right between the vulnerability and the judgment of it. So I might prolong the discomfort and learn from it. So I might be even more vulnerable the next time I look over you...


You might overlook me. It might hurt.

I'll make poetry.

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