You stopped, said hello
ate my buttery smile,
clutched the inside of my arms,
licked the silver off my words.
What if I told you I am more,
more than your version of my inside turned out –
a pewter pool for you to float in
to admire your smooth-shined reflection.
What if I told you
I am a whirlwind, a tsunami, a waterfall?
Inside, I flash-flood your Midwestern flattened opinions,
tear your tepid kisses into damp paper shreds.
I know you don’t believe me,
I can tell by your eyes:
their lunar gravity drags
my ocean into neap tide.