after Pablo Neruda

I love you the way I love Fritos, grape jam, and bling—  
the way a bonfire spits sparks into a sky scorched with stars.  
I love you as much as a full tank of gas—through switchbacks,
and wisecracks—window rolled down so everyone can see. 

I love you secretly, between my plush and my pit—
the way my mother loved her Persian Melon lipstick
in the 60s—the way it glowed in date-night darkness and left
a smudge on the rim of her coffee cup the next morning.

I love you the way a match loves its flame, ice cream loves
a cone, Chanel No. 5 loves a pulse, and sharks love the sea.
and—thanks to your tenacity—I love the aroma of desire
that rises from the friction of our commingled bodies.

I love you phenomenally, forever, and everywhere—   
nearby or from afar—without guile or devious wiles.