we are friends with benefits.

At night when only the streets are lit,

I leave my room and knock on your window,

and you unlock the door so no one will know.

I sit on your bed and listen to jazz

and tell you about all the nonsense dreams I have,

read you poetry about stars,

pondering whether I'll ever find the second half of my heart.

And you listen to me humming along,

you like the way I get the melodies wrong.

You tell me about your fear of cancer,

but even more, death,

and complain that you have no alcohol left.

You show me your scars from work,

to others you joke, saying they are racing stripes

that make you speed on your bike,

but I know they are burns.

I know your hurt.

We hold hands because we like to touch,

we do not kiss because it is enough.

We sleep, curled up in parenthesis together,

I, because I'm chilled by the weather,

you, because you like resting in a spoon,

though we never sleep till noon.

We have never made love,

never sexually brushed,

never felt any emotion of lust,

only comfort.

But to the world, we are friends with benefits.

You tell your guys we are nothing but

$!@! buddies,

and I proclaim to my girls you are so great in bed.

Our secret is too sweet

to ever be seen

as something pure in a place

that is populated by praised disgrace.

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