I wanna go to Tupelo with you.
I don’t care that I’ve never seen that place outside of a picture,
because I think that town would hold us
keeping us cool, keeping our skin warm because we’re tasty.
I want to sleep in a hotel room where everything is velvet and green.
Where the end of the toilet paper roll
is dog-eared like a Jacqueline Susann novel.
I want to make verbs with you.
I want my thighs to stick to the seat.
want to shave my legs in a parking lot
with a razor from a pack of six.
The pack has to last us three weeks.
I want to eat warmish macaroni at an Esso station
in a town between others with names.
I want to sing until my voice sounds like yours
and yours like mine. I want to almost leave you one night
in a dead mall over something tiny that explodes.
I want to love Elvis with you without irony.
I want to take care of all that business I built up without you
on my own. I want to cry lost time into every stitch
of the pillow until all those stitches loosen into notes.
I want to take a bath of notes. I want to loofah my legs with B-flats
and slide As down my stomach to a place
that in teen movies is secret and sacred.
But I want you to know me entirely. I want you to record music on my skin.
I want to play your eyelashes, your toes,
your fingernails, the hoarseness of your voice.
I want us to be louder than the radio.