“You can’t handle me,” she tells me, and I think I can, to hell with the signs

“Wait, what are you doing?” she asks, in between stanzas and phrases from her past. Listening to her voice in her voice, capturing her questions.

In between whispering “closer” and holding out her arm, holding me away, she wants me nearer to her, despite the fear of feeling me.

“You can’t handle me,” she tells me, and I think I can, to hell with the signs; tiny little insanities that tease us out among the hail, tempt us to tempt the storm

“I’ll drive you crazy,” she warns, and I’ve heard that before, finding and losing ourselves in constant retelling, and the truth - I really want her to.

We stumble closer, and wonder why this is the way the world works, when we’ve turned away and into ourselves, she finds me waiting for her to rest her head —

here on my shoulder.

waiting for her to slip her hand — here among my fingers.

“What am I doing?” I ask myself, I wonder about my sanity, when our roads diverge so soon, that I want this more with every word… that I want to be driven crazy.

And she waits for my response, for these words scattered and recollected for my words that tempt her to latch her heart to mine.

“Capture me in your words,” I want to say, capture me with your words, in between the lines and stanzas of our now, and we’ll always wonder what we’re doing.