love confessions, with a scowl
inspired by Maya Angelou's "Come, And Be My Baby" what to do with hands so full of time? holding a pen, writing, scribbling, still leaves the other so full. longing is a thing, but yearning, a life. how to respond to love other than sarcastic jabs? you who desires so much of me i, waiting, for the eventual dissipation. how to tell a non-reader in softer ways that leaves the heart wanting more? that i, woman, might succumb to these brave attempts at sweet and tender. perhaps, when the skin gets thicker and you can bear the jabs better. wait, a while, for my speech to grow from bitter to feather. why do i dance around only to regret when the music stops. will you have me if i come around, stop the chasing, if i come around, without the nerves, and ask you to be my baby?