you are my alarm clock,
the vertical curve on the corner of my lip,
but you are not the urgent tap against my skin,
not the creases between my brows.
you are a tabloid magazine,
a stifling bank of encounters,
but not the ringing repetition
of electronic dance music.
you are a pair of socks with stains on them,
the warmth of the sun licking my back,
but you can never be a filthy fingernail,
and you will never be the bottom of a single serve of whiskey.
for langham-
you are the subject of a significant amount of my poetry.