Whatever We Call Love

It's sexy when you rub the wound,
healed now but still a bumpy scar
and you have the instinct to find it
you intoxicating girl:

something about the boys
laughing at me in the locker room
when I came in carrying a pen,
my penis too small.

Oh I am lost in reminiscence when you
rub the blemish hard, that funny expression on
your delicate lips.

It's sexy when you joke
about being stronger than I.
The association throbs
attached as it is
to love.