Feet propped up in November and I’m thinking about you like crazy, like,
wood thinks about burning,
like drunks think about swerving,
like boys like bodies to be curving.
I'm thinking about you like
boots think about go-go’s,
like girls drop it so low,
I'm feeling a different kind of low,
like writers think about ethos, pathos, and logos.
I’m thinking about you like
Children think about nightmares,
like November thinks about facial hairs,
like I think about your scruff, and I’d lick you like a cream puff,
you’d call me “hot-stuff”…
but I’m trapped in these love cuffs.
And I’m still thinking about you like,
Cats think about posing for T-shirts,
Like addicts think about a smoke at a concert,
Like perverts would think about my skirt,
And your eyes won’t so much as avert towards this so obvious flirt I’m putting on.
I’m thinking about you like swings think about kids growing up. They weigh more on the chains, their butts get bigger, and you know what? I bet the swings even like it. Pedophiles.
It’s still November and the the blood has rushed away from my feet while I sit here and think and think and think about you like the last line of this poem thinks about being read aloud. It won’t because I’ve got stage fright, the screen is too bright, and I feel like a yellow traffic light my mind screaming “SLOOOOW DOWN” and red doesn’t come soon enough.
I’m thinking about you like a green light. Red means stop.