Cursive would-you-rathers never asked, only guessed,
as you sit on the edge of my bed and pretend
that this apartment leaves you any personal space.
You look up at my art hanging by my bathroom door,
I look up, at you.
I don't know if I like that you agree to any game I choose.
You're here because I told you to be,
and you're sitting on the edge of my bed because
it hasn't occurred to you that you can decide.
Would you rather invent mixed drinks in the kitchen
or drink Jack in front of a campfire?
I think you'd spend too long trying to be original with your answer.
Do you realize you're only ever answering?
The Initiator, you called me.
I didn't object.
"I like burning as many candles as I can at once," I say,
playing with my miniature lighter.
You comment on the lighter, the candles, or the candles, then the lighter,
but you don't ask me why it is I like burning candles.
You never ask why.
I know ten new things about you,
like the way your shoulders move back and your chin tilts up
to fill the spaces between my questions and your answers,
or that you must have just cut your hair
because you still furrow your brows
like you're trying to blink it out of your eyes.
But you don't know a thing about me, other than what I've volunteered;
I smoke, I read, and I don't believe.