Will You--

[melodicinkysin]

You

shovel a horde

of lemonheads between

your tongue-slick lips,

squeak and resist the urge

to spit them out.

                                          I
                             choke, for
             the feeling in my gut
      is the pull at your cheeks
and the burning, acidic singe
                  of your tastebuds.
                              I recollect
      the contents of my lunch,
                 hoping not to find     
           them on the sidewalk,
and try my best not to stutter.

You

fumble around
your room, sink
a pushpin into your heel.
You choke bombs
you long to drop
and barricade them behind your teeth,
bobble on the carpet and pluck
the tack from your heel.

                   I

                               am silent,
       swallowing and internally
                               remarking
                              on the bob
                of my adam’s apple
and the scratch of my tongue.

You

stand in the cold
for hours for the snow,
the movement of my hands
would be the quake
of your muscles.
You stamp your feet and try
to will them— obey —
to cease their vibrations,

                                 while I,

                       feeling the rouge of my knee
        abrading the sidewalk, hold your gaze
                                 to the quivering image
                                      of a red velvet box.
              I pull the lid open, nearly dropping
                          it, plead you with my eyes,
                         unable to ask the question
                                you knew was coming.