Boiling granite countertop.
A bottle of Four Roses asks me

“is she coming, or
should I swim into your cold brew?”
Is mine a visual anxiety,
this marathon in my chest
and invisible pin pricks
if a flailing romance?
Probably not, but just
an intrepid stuttering
that hiccups
any form of a decision.
I’m just a wayward white man
without a bulletin
to pin my trauma against.

Burrito bar napkin,
I vent to you.