You can't major in action and adventure.

You wanted to be Indiana Jones when you were little. Sifting my hands through your mind felt like archaeology; I wanted to discover ancient artifacts in your veins, uncover lost civilizations in your bones, there were hidden cities inside of you that I could not wait to call home. You were never afraid of anything but me - soft bodied, warm blooded, and entirely too passionate for you. I would have demanded the secrets, insisted on detail and analysis and a brief history of your personal ruins. I would have run my fingers up your arms, tracing your veins to your shoulders, leaving my mark like childhood hand prints in wet cement. When I put my mouth to your ear, and whisper “I love you,” you would have felt like candlelight, warm and flickering. There are still landmines buried just beneath my surface. I’m afraid you’ll realize that I’m just a mess of silky skin and porcelain bones and leave me for something that can't possibly hurt you.

You will fall into her bed, careful and careless like autumn leaves, and I’ll go back to writing poems about boys who cannot make my last name taste like red wine.