Sitting on the countertop
you tell me about accidentally
shooting a goose,
chaos flocking overhead,
a swirling cloud,
un-assured dreams.

Dust lifts off the 16-year-old dog,
you pat the space
bread nearly baked fills

I hold my own
knees and hope you hear
what I haven’t said
while wondering what wanting looks like

You say, “To say it
simply.”

I sit on the countertop
and wonder
what your thighs
loosely laid on a countertop
would feel like on my back—
if you would squeeze
my shoulders.

I want to feel your hands
I want to sit beside you.
I want to invite you in
to how my mind trips and falls

narcissistic intimacy.