That One Time I Stayed Up All Night Making Excuses to Talk to Danger

Maybe it was my old friend Fascination who first let me know that Danger was right across the hall, or maybe it was the unrealized absence of pollen, or, was it the nearness, Danger, of your hair’s blatant softness, just toweled. Or, I wanted to stop thinking — and, I wanted to ask, Do you think God understands attraction? Surely, right? Or, I wanted you to notice my anger, which you might not characterize as dangerous, per se, but rather, fickle, a synonym for “mercurial.” Maybe that’s typical. Yup, there is a liquid sharpness in me I wouldn’t unlid except    ...    damn, Danger, there’s this certain way you draw out epiphany    ... You’re messy, Danger, baby, meaning untidy, confusing, monumental, great in size, and also, of or serving as a monument, which leads me to reconsider the dimensions of sandwiches, as well as apartheid, the aphid, and the scarab beetle. Danger, can you feel me tremble? But I am saying nothing, dear Danger, you don’t already know — you’re used to being pursued with rage, unwanted advice, riddles. That’s not me, respectfully — Joy is always waiting to cyclone you with nothing more than a matchbook, a long gaze, a warm bowl.