When it comes to you,
I’m a house with no locks,
a fire hydrant gushing in a hurricane,
a piñata at a birthday party for nihilists.
I’m the guy who brings a knife to a gunfight
and then asks if you want to borrow it.

You’re the black hole in my cosmic joke,
the punchline I keep telling even though
no one’s laughing.
I’d say you’re my kryptonite,
but let’s be honest—
I was never Superman.
I’m more like the guy who trips over his cape
and blames gravity for being clingy.

When it comes to you,
I’m a moth with a death wish,
flapping toward your flame like it’s a job interview.
I’m the guy who volunteers to test the parachute
and then wonders why the...