the person i love asks me to explain poetry to him

setting

the kind of day that stretches outward

and rewinds and folds back on itself

so that the whole evening is a

jenga tower of memories wedged

together precariously until it collapses

when a particularly unlucky player

tries to pull out one too close to the foundation.

atmosphere

the disturbingly solid air of this apartment

the in-between accumulations of something

thick and viscous and oh so heavy (is this love?)

being poured all over me until

i melt into the warp and weft

of the couch and the yarn of my tendons

is pulled at for years to come by pet and toddlers 

and other such pesky infestations of life.

characters 

the man next to me has a bad habit.

he scratches my head like i am pampered

and precious; and when i intertwine my 

fingers with his like a guilty child, eyeing 

something i do not own, he doesn’t

pull away; and when i drool a little on his shirt

he just laughs and pushes my hair out of the way

and I know with all the certainty that my little heart

can muster that he does not love me;

so when the person I love asks me to explain poetry,

how silly that I do not have an answer?