The air outside is vulnerable. I consume myself for wanting to turn you inside and hold you there. My throat has been contracted for signs of these things that I’ll never speak.

I wrote a poem while looking at you at a symbolic remove, intense in the damaged shreds of us. I close my focus when it narrows to find me ugly. I have the fantasy of you. You were looking at me too. I want to ask you inside. I was afraid of sleeping beside you, of right and shame. I want to ask you about sensuality. You say yes to symbolize my conscious control, but then I just want to feel taken by you.

And maybe in this place I think about, you are always talking and wrong. I don’t quite know what is what. I close up so much when I try to kiss the rules. In that place with you I block myself from thinking as a child. But I want to get lost in your mouth. I want to be close. I want to be wrong.

If you are watching you still don’t quite know how awful it is if anyone saw what I’ve thought through my eyes? I hate what I was, afraid of you. So many layers of guilt if anyone saw what he wanted. He put his mouth for a thousand lashes of me without leaving my mouth for as long as I could. Pretend like about making out. I’m repeating old lines, flicking my words into your ear. But I can’t even talk about being held.

I’m thinking about what I’ve noticed when you are inside. These things are too embarrassing to write, even while alone. My friend said that you say I could make your lips. I can love things that are too direct. What if anyone saw I want the possibility to soothe the pain.

I notice when you are on the edge over shame and I can’t say yes or no. Maybe if I thought of you, really asleep, slack jawed. It inhibits my desire. I could. Pretend like it turns you but you only want to be cool. What if I imagine conversations in my own friendly mouth. I think you were looking clever and it’s too difficult, too real.

I get caught. It so directly seems like it turns you, sitting softly in the side of guilt and shame. I’m still here, even if I thought these things I’ll never speak. I intended to be with you through that small window and needed. I know how to incite and write about how awful it is. So many layers of skin around your softness is open to my fingers.

I chose you when you caught me, but then again, you inside. I would take any of its indirectness. Comfortable. Not literal. Verbal sparring. A man who consumed himself because he wanted. He put his mouth, feeling stupid passion of skin and it suits me too. I want to say it shouldn’t. What if I think so hard to say yes, to say yes, to want to write the things that are close. I can’t because it’s with you inside. Softly in its indirectness. Comfortable. Not literal.

My friend said I was afraid to be a better writer. It’s too direct and I imagine saying it kills something. But I also hoped it could turn you inside. I can love things about being in the air outside.