My ladle is an accurate devil,
watching details.
Swallows criticism,
until I've measured sufficient.
Sometimes this teaspoon serves more than sugar.
He stirs me,
observing changes observed
and I whore for attention
like any internet's children.
I want to become
(a girl who can dance for 3 minutes,
a woman who can love without fucking)
more perfectly a better me.
He asks questions I can't answer,
would ignore from anyone else,
his soundtrack dies for love.
Life as a bleeding explorer is all I've got,
but I could die tomorrow.
In acute humanity, insecurity goes without saying.
I write my doubts on napkin scraps,
leave them crumpled in coffee spills at Starbucks' across Manhattan.
Some busboy I'll never meet
knows some stranger with poor penmanship
fears not being
(entertaining, charming, supportive, attentive, ... )
enough.
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