Up in arms.
I fought using my only means-
instinctually as opposite sex blood brothers do.
Your wavy hair speaking to me
in an accent all its own.
Washing up on the shores of my mobile mind–
high tide and low tide.
The wash of your skinnys:
your legs, some spears ever-so-gently stabbing the ground,
warring with you as mine do.
There is nothing bland about you-
unless truth telling is tasteless.
I’ve acted in poor taste; seen you do the same.
If truth is beauty, then there is no fighting
puzzle piece pheromones from fitting.