Wrapped in profanity

The place smells like
old beer and new lies,
a jukebox coughing quarters
like it’s got asthma.

You come in
with rain in your hair
and a look that says
you’ve already forgiven nobody.

I’m two shots past polite,
three past wise,
and I tell you the truth
the only way I know how...

like a guy
hammering a nail
with his forehead.

“Your rack is a 12 out of 10,” I say,
and it lands on the table
between us
like a dirty flower.

You laugh...
not sweet, not shy,
but the kind of laugh
that could start a fire in a trash can
and call it warmth.

I try to clean it up
with a better sentence,
but my mouth is a busted vending machine
and it only dispenses
what it dispenses.

“So are your legs,” I add,
“like they were designed
by somebody
who hated lonely men.”

The bartender pretends not to hear.
The mirror behind the bottles
pretends not to exist.

You lean in,
close enough that I can smell
budget perfume and bargain shampoo
and the day you had
before you ended up here.

I want to say:
you look like peace.
you look like home.
you look like a reason.

But my throat only knows
the language of bad neighborhoods.

“Your mouth,” I say,
“should have a warning label.
I’d ruin my life
just to stand near it.”

Outside, the night keeps falling apart...
sirens, laughter,
a couple fighting in a parked car
like it’s a sport.

Inside, you touch my wrist
like you’re checking for a pulse
and I swear
something ugly in me
learns a better habit.

You tilt your head,
eyes bright as busted streetlights.

“Keep talking,” you say,
“you beautiful disaster.”

And I do...
not because I’m smooth,
not because I’m good,
but because you’re there,
and I’m here,

and in a world this cheap
sometimes the only love you get
comes wrapped in profanity
and handed over
with shaking hands.