14 Lines Poems

With your knees next to mine, I lit the pot
and coughed a campfire in my lap.
I'm thirsty. Water with ice. Oh. Thanks.

You wouldn't know this, but you are my robe
in the morning and right before bed
when I'm tired like a teapot's broken whistle,
a see-saw's last dip. This is not to say that you don't fit,
but slip off my shoulder, a cold patch of skin.

I've caught the drift. I've tacked it to my wall,
this fall of paper and paint. So star-crossed,
I crossed your backyard last night in nothing
but a bra. Or not.

I wasn't supposed to tell you that,
but it's late, and I forgot to put on some underwear.