Talking about linguistics
on the couch, and
I feel so full
that I could

walk to Fort Greene
park again,
this time not as friends
and when we sit
on the bench
I will be asking
for sex.

I watch your
mouth as you
speak about
skyscrapers
and new construction

I say to myself, I want my
kids to have these eyes,
your hair.

But I am
not suited
to your nomadic
lifestyle.

I want to be like
the big tree in the park
with it’s willowy
branches that shade
and cool. Roots running
deep and wide.

You told your mom
how I cried on our first,
and second,
date.

Funny that
now I’d like
so badly
to see you in
my kitchen,
with your shirt off
cooking chickpea
pasta, sweet onions
and your jeans are
slipping down without
your belt.

Maybe I need to
learn this look,
a look you say
she gives, when she’s
”looking to be fucked.”