Maybe this time the pale violets will catch fire
instead of the tablecloth and my mother will
come out of her study and yell for me to do
something about the flames eating our house.
Then I'll have to call you on the phone and say,
"Not tonight, David."
You're a clever tease with a drama club smile,
an almost perfect posture that screams,
"Believe in me or else I'll melt into oblivion."
Especially in the beginning, I thought you
were conceited, but at the same time,
I dreamed drunkenly about tracing
the curve of your jaw and causing
color to form on your cheeks.