Touch You Like a Tiger

I hope he touches you like a tiger—
soft and rough, the way I imagined
you like. Yes, I want the next man
you make googly eyes at to take action,
decisive action, the way my horoscope
is always telling me: Dear indecisive Libra—
shit or get off the pot. But the stars know
I am purgatory-cursed, waffling in limbo,
torn between two incompatible wants.
I can’t have both, so I choose the closest,
most convenient, guaranteed option:
the one I am already in.

But you—
you sit at a buffet of choice,
gargling sweet drinks, tasting everything.
I hope he—whoever he is—kisses you
in a way that resurrects forgotten childhood
fantasies: playground dares, nervous giggles,
secrets whispered after dark—
that sudden feeling,
the click of remembering
what life is for,
how it lights itself.

Yes, I pray
he will do all the things I hesitate over,
never once drafting a pros-and-cons list.
Let him touch you like a tiger again—
not caged, not pacing,
not choosing safety over teeth.

For your sake,
he should be everything
I was too careful to be.