I’ve got bushel baskets of hearts,
the wood stained raspberry-red,
juice pooling in the bed of this wagon.
Things like this don’t just happen,
they collide, slip and stumble
across slick floors, meteor-fall
into your lap, stain your hands
when you try to cradle them,
pat them dry like soft berries.
The magnetism of things interjects,
calls you out beneath the sheets,
rebels against your better judgment.
Your eyes are as blue as hotel pools,
your lips as tempting as having just one more.
This is an entanglement, a predicament,
without enough air.
These boots will leave unmistakable prints--
tracks in the snow leading to my heart.
Love as fast as rockets.
We accelerate towards heartbreak.