He kisses like sliding a pick over a guitar string.
Like sleeves rolled up too far;
like wet socks in dry shoes;
like sitting in a chair pushed in too far.
He embraces like down shifting a manual too soon.
Like explaining why there's a pair of his
underwear in the backyard;
like pants pulled up too far;
like mixing up the words "penis" and "pianist."
He speaks like he has no chance of being heard.
Like the scent of plastic flowers;
like his father on Father's Day;
like snow in a Mexican winter.
He loves like a pen running out of ink.
Like a burnt out bottle rocket;
Like an empty shampoo bottle.
He exists like an apology;
unable to erase but completely necessary.
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