You know I would write your name
Across my mattress after dragging you to
Friday Night Slam at the Nuyorican
Barely three poets in I’d ask you “Do you want to come home with me?”
And you would say “I thought you said you liked live poetry?”
I would breathe onto your neck
“Yes, I like alive poetry
You, My bed, Right now”
When we would get to my apartment
I would slam you against the bed,
Reach for my dresser,
And throw you a pen and a sheet of paper.
The smirk you had all the way home would fall
“Really?”
Catching your smirk I’d say
“No.
But tell me you don’t have a million things
To write about after you kiss me”