i’d sing a love song if i could carry a tune

there’s something supernatural in those hands,
or maybe it’s the deep streets carved into the palms &
steering me toward your paranormally old soul. either way,
i didn’t mean to offend my intuition when i half-claimed,
my heart wasn’t manufactured for romantic lovin’, when, the truth
is, it knew that i wanted to make fossils with you. yes, i do
want us to burrow ourselves in alone & bury our love
in the raspy loam of your lyrics until we harden
into history, securing our space in the geologic time
scale. yes, i sometimes fantasize the overlapping
of timelines but also little things like hanging eucalyptus
plants from our shower ceiling & letting the steam
lick & seal us in an envelope of cinnamon & camphoric
cologne. enclosed: us giving new meaning to hot yoga.

& everything’s all the more sentimental knowing
your stretched stature, in its late-renaissance-mannerist-
awkward elegance, could so easily crush my five feet
& three inches the way our molars crush soft gas station ice
with so little effort while our getaway car idles on e. &
you could just as easily peck me in a photobooth when
its countdown strikes one & clip the developed strip
to your car visor, because you’re really just as gentle as
the rotting peonies i press into my vision board. yes,
you are the enigma that every other soul is searching for, but
please promise me you won’t show up in anyone else’s dreams,
& i’ll make my cells promise to fight every day to keep me alive,
command them to suit up in their bulletproof mitochondria
& use their mitosis to multiply the 7,811 days i’ve already
outlived. when they ask why, i’ll tell them that me and you’ve
got a date at five at some point in the future, & maybe by then
i’ll also know what it means to love a girl named kiersten.