In an awkward way,
I like how you cross your legs and drape over your chair.
In an awkward way,
I like the way your reedy voice saws into the closet doors,
Or the way your hair rests in your lap,
Hair tousled, barely hiding your face.
In an awkward way,
I like your thin spaghetti arms,
Your unbuttoned shirt,
Your jackassness.
I’d like to take your profile,
Insert it in a silhouette,
Cigarette in your hand,
Smoke clawing out your mouth.
But that’d be useless.
Your smile is pedophilic in photographs.
I attempt to be nice, but you’re mean.
So I’m mean.
And I like it.