Toothpick Woman

I and you go quietly around our crossing paths,
never touching, Toothpick Woman. I could pick
my teeth with your shoulder. Sometimes I long
to dig my teeth in your shoulder. Midnight, and I’m
awake, eating my words, swallowing my words,
to fortify myself against your empty limbs,
Matchstick Woman. You are the stuff of my insomnia.
You are the stuff of mayonnaise dreams. You are
my malaise, I cannot haunt you effectively.