Sometimes I feel a pain that’s almost ecstasy
A dull and tickling throbbing of expansiveness and scope.
I sense it slowly swell on Saturday nights
Running up down escalators in deserted malls.
Or when a song sounds like fifteen.
The voice itself is unrequited love, insecurity, ambition.
And in the decision that a boy is perfect.
And all that could exist forever,
Because his hair is black and curly
And his eyes flash magic.
Later I’ll call it seduction.
But right now it’s magic, bliss like
An Austrian gazebo
Upon which I dance in the rain with a Nazi.