Her bed is like Telemundo,
I don’t always understand what’s going on,
but I can tell there’s passion.
I need subtitles for her love.
Then again, it’s not so much what’s being said
I dated a French girl once
who sounded so sexy until I spoke french too
and learned she just wanted me
to get more milk
next time I was out.
I prefer love in a language
that allows me to pretend
love is perfect.
So if ignorance is bliss
I’m hanging the Do Not Disturb sign
on the doorknob of our relationship.
Don’t even try to get a grasp;
this is the suite life
and we won’t be needing turn-down service
but on second thought you can leave a few of
those chocolates because
I never turn down free chocolate.
Chocolate turns up the passion.
I think I was a silkworm in a past life
because her skin feels like home.
It’s so smooth Dr. Pepper
studies her DNA.
Maybe one day when our love has turned bitter
and we understand each other all too well
I’ll ask if there’s some secret
and she’ll say mayonnaise.
But for now I’m content
assuming her Double Helix is so beautiful
God modeled a Nebula after it.
And alien twenty-somethings
driving by the center of the Milky Way
slow their spaceships and honk their horns,
yelling out, “Hubble, Hubble!”
Not paying attention,
they run right into that Black Hole,
but the gravitational collapse is much easier
than telling their Dad they totaled
his new hybrid.
Telling your Dad you totaled his hybrid is harder
than just about everything
except saying I love you in a vacuum.
But that’s the best place to say it
because you feel the full weight of it
on your chest as you gasp for air.
I remember when I was a kid at the beach.
I knocked a minnow out onto the shore, and,
watching it flop and suck for breath,
shouting for help in its bubble language,
I thought, could someone ever have this
power over me?
Water is love for fish.
How lucky -
to be born in love
to live in love
to die in love.
How appropriate -
that the moon
should be the one
to bring me the wave
that takes me back home.