I’m not saying I am Beetlejuice,
But I cannot promise
That if you scream my name 3 times
I won’t come.
..Are your poems about me?”
She was three highballs in
On a dripping Saturday night.
The windows curving the wet wind,
Directing it to her breathless skin.
Shivering just enough to
Make her look alive.
Her almond eyes blinking with
Lashes tapping like bird wings.
She already knew the answer.
I smiled and grabbed a Sharpie.
Lifting her dress up and off
Her thin body, she shivered again.
Upon her silky smooth stomach
I wrote, “you are every poem.”
I kissed the punctuation, punctuating
The moment with my lips.