I write lyrics like
nobody's business
with no one to show them to;
they swim like fish inside my head,
schools of sharklings with
hammer teeth and
mermaid legs.

The world
(or at least all my
toybox playmates)
want my best friend
as their personal peachtree.
And me?
I love Sara.
I'm just not in love
with her.

Even previous affection dwindles
in accordance
and effervescence
with her dream-dancer:
the girl she
pines for like
drugs, whose love
is (apparently) better
than ice cream.
She can't focus
or fondle anything else
with enthusiasm
until she has
this girl.

Or maybe
it's only me
she can't probe.
Only me, with my
compliance and
hopeless passive grot, my
secret wants and please for
help in garnering for myself
some kind of intimacy in
everglades, in pages for
a rainy Monday, or a
drink for Tuesday
or a hug for—
for whenever
I need it.

I give horrible hugs,
she says.