I wished you lived under my bed
like some kind of ill mannered troll
so I could just lift up the sheets
and feed you popcorn
knowing the scuttle of a body in the dark
was only you

I'd kidnap you in a burlap sack like Santa Claus
stealing you back for myself
after leaving you in a cemetary during a thunderstorm
that washed off your eyeliner

I can still make love to you
on Sundays behind the church
with my fingertips running over your tattoed shoulder blades
wings protruding through my passion
like bite marks on the name inked into your chest

I'll wash your back in the lake
my white dress see-through when wet
wrapping my legs around your waist
to run my fingers through your hair

We won't talk about when I'll leave you again
how restlessness sets into my bones
and I'll be gone
leaving dust in the floor boards
wind in your palm

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