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"SOMEWHERE IN NEW YORK CITY, PETER PARKER IS TINGLING"
Repeated slamming doors erode trust like chalk from a summer storm sidewalk.
Phrases like:
"I just don't feel that way about you,"
"You're like a brother to me,"
or
"Our friendship is just too valuable to risk,"
ripple through my brain on waves of meringue.
I can sing their harmonies,
breathe their melodic sevenths.
But what if they're right?
What if filial or platonic love is too valuable
to risk for something spiritual
or, at least, physical?
It's that question that's keeping mefrom confessing my love for you.
Well,
that, and the spider that's creeping up the left side of your neck.
An octagonal masseuse whispering warm breath,
trying to free you from your paralysis.
Your hands rigor mortised in the midst of strumming that diminished G7th,
your head cocked into the microphone at a perfect 45 degree angle,
as though you're about to give it
the most passionate kiss that time has ever---
I can't decide whether I'd rather have my lips be the microphone,
or my fingers be the spider.
The creaking of your voice,
and the complete fade of feedback from the guitar frees me
from my hypnosis.
I pluck the arachnid from your neck,
pass it the caring glance of the jeweler,
and deposit it on the living room carpet.
Its nomadic trek across the oriental designs
tears my glance from you with the painful stretch of velcro.
"I don't get you."
you say as you return to strumming your guitar,
"You like heights,
insects,
Alfred Hitchcock movies
and the dark.
Does nothing scare you?"
I look to the spider
and whisper "One thing."
All the while thinking
I love you, I love you,
"I..."
- Adam Stone