I Like You
I am not a stalker, but I like you.
Your choices are often odd but seldom wrong. If there’s soup in summer, you’ll have it, slurping like a porpoise with that trilling giggle of yours.
You have a list of eight things you can never have too much of. Seven of them make me quiver.
You do not like animals other than stuffed ones, yet you pretend when your cousin, Pete, brings by his Lab.
You are strong yet lithe and unmuscled. I have posters of women with your shape of legs and the same small hands, though not one of the models can match you whole.
Your eyes are ceramic blue.
I have made many attempts, some quite despicable. Sometimes I hold my breath.
A climax can be gory or glorious, both bliss and release, but it’s not pity I want, or even forgiveness.
You should know that you are a permanent stain, a scar, a sickle cell, a long-worn smoke smell on my skin which soap cannot conquer or rid.
This is not enough but it’ll have to do. I watch you from a safe perch, knowing where you are and what you’re doing, full of joy and promise in a life where I have left one foot in, and one foot out, of the picture.
Len Kuntz lives in rural Washington State. His writing appears in over 140 publications, at places like Necessary Fiction, Dogzplot, Word Riot and also at lenkuntz.blogspot.com
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