Personal Canon

Your fingerprints, your DNA,
the swirl of your definitive cowlick,

all piss on the trunk of a tree,
sharing yourself with me.

Vulnerable and forceful.
Vulgar and needy, taste.

If I like these tracks,
I may well inhale your scent.

I may let your mix blend
with me. Your earworms become

keloid brands upon my brain.
Will I pretend to like them?

Attempt to listen and hope,
based on your pheromones,

I will grow to love the order and flow
of your jams, like an appreciation for cheeses

or cultivating a fondness for one
particular vine over another.

And that's only Side A. Good compilations
kick off with a corker, and carry me to the end.

Will I make it through?
So full of potential.

If I leave it on the seat
to melt, that's telling.