More (Angsty) Poetry <*shrug*>

Crush

There's a sharpness to the way you sit in the world,
that's only half to do with
your delicate bones,
slender wrists and
sharp chin.
A sharpness that is familiar to
bi-girls
everywhere
or so it seems.

I'd like to think we could be friends.

Knowing that we share a love of
learning,
speculative fiction, and
kinky sex,

Knowing that we could
talk gender/queer/feminist theory
for hours
and not get tired

knowing
that if
by some miracle,
we met,
connected,
and
hit it off,

I'd want to hold on to you
drink coffee,
talk shop,
see if you and your
marxist philosophies
could handle my
ecofeminist religious fervor

But

I have to warn you

If, by some miracle,
we became friends,
I know
I'd always want more from you

I'd want those
long fingers
inside me to the wrist,
that smart mouth,
sharp tongue,
on my clit
making me groan,
making me yours.

And that scares me
(for too many reasons),
Because I've already got
Commitments
(no matter how I try to renegotiate them)
and, besides,
I suspect that
hunger or no hunger,
I'd be too awkward for you.

My insecurities tell me
I'd be
Too old, at twenty-eight, to play
the inexperienced innocent
"I've never done this before," murmured
shyly,
eyes downcast,
lying through my teeth
(so eager to drive, hard, into your pale, perfect skin)
But too young,
by some ten years,
to be taken
seriously.