A Room With a View

He doesn’t know how to love

An intergalactic portal sounds the way my laptop does

When I sit in front of it for hours doing nothing

Except wasting precious time and

Watching a room with a view.

I don’t know how to love

Hands that smell like cupcakes and bleach that

Causes a dryness so porous that they provide evidence

For wherever they should not have been.

If we knew how to love

Would we be doing whatever it is we are doing?

We are doing life, or some semblance thereof

And we are doing each other, occasionally.

I legitimize our arguments by

Labeling them as learning experiences

That shape . . .

Something.

If there is a secret box in my head full

Of things I do not tell you, it would only be sensible

That you would know before I do. I have not noticed

A box yet but I will let you know when

I do.