I hit the intersections where your shoulders meet your neck, passing through the car wrecks of ex-boyfriends who parallel parked on the dead ends. and I just hope your skin lends me an extra mile so I can slow down, take a while to admire the landscape, drape my arm over your being there. this time when it comes to your skin, I’m a drunk driver trying to walk a straight line.

I’ve been pulled over so much that your simple touch is enough to make me assume the position—wishing I could stay there, where your hand searches my body for contraband that could land me in the jail of your ribcage. Because road rage is a sickness and my medicine is your skin. I could spend the rest of my life circling the same block, wondering where does the world hide its private stock of people like you.

I’ve been told
that people in the army
do more by 7:00 am
than I do
in an entire day

but if I wake
at 6:59 am
and turn to you
to trace the outline of your lips
with mine
I will have done enough
and killed no one
in the process.