Jimmer scored fifty-/
two, but I didn’t view the /
game. My choice was great!

Under a citrus-/
slice moon, you swooned again. Are/
we now more than friends?

I like you as a sex object:
My Ann Margaret poster.
Do you object?
My emotional roller coaster.

My object of desire.
The kindling of my fire.
My not knowing where or whence,
only knowing feeling that intense.

Is wanting to see/
someone earlier and more/
obnoxious or sweet?

Bean enchaladas/
the night before a meeting?/
A bad idea.

Will women always/
want and need wine to fall for/
and deeply want me?

Just when I thought
it would be ok
to look at photos brought
and sent during past days
when my soul
and my muse
were confused;
when the pictures
I collected
and reflected
on
brought such deep
feelings
that I filed them
away,
safe.

I was thinking I could risk
bringing them out;
that maybe things had
changed
in some strange
way
to make the exposure
of exposures
ok.

I was wrong.

My helping hand has always been extended
(unlike others, who frequently intended
to reach out to you for their own gain).
My purposes have always been the same:

To support and uplift you
where I could;
To encourage you onward
to your greatest good.

As she stands
at such a precipice,
dare I extend my hand
at a risky time like this?

Is she dangling
dangerously?
Or merely trying
a better view to see?

Will my reaching out
block her enthusiasm
as she removes her doubt
and leaps across the chasm?

I will retreat and offer no assistance
until I’m certain I’ll meet no resistence.