I keep telling myself
I'll stop writing love poems
for boys, for windowsills, and for 
warm coves between pancakes.

Each pivot of my
ankles is a pen-line in
the blue-lined notebook 
page of dawn-- you wrap
me like the redline
encircle my legs 
with the metal spiral bind. 

I don't want to stop writing
i love you
with mascara in mirror mist
in the labyrinths of my thumb
prints pressed-- hold the back
of you neck
like a warm mug of peppermint
tea.

I love you with persistent
nights and forgotten mornings
lost in the cores of my 
Macintosh apples.

I love you across 
inside-out socks.
Across windowsill ledges.
Across cardboard endings
of notebooks that always 
come too soon.