defying the dirty word

Brevity.
That seems, to me, to be
a nice word for
not-being-enough.
Not-being-enough like
my empty wallet
which flaps,
puppetlike
mockingly
in my face.
Not-being-enough for coffee
or for cigarettes
or for a dinner date with a unicorn.

Or not-being-enough like
my pitiful lack of sleep, thank you.
No, really, I mean that.
So when I woke up
heart pounding, head reeling
(or was it the other way around?)
I was still dazed
by the memories still fresh of your hand
gracefully grazing mine,
trembling imitation of lips quivering
waiting
and zen and the art of making out in your car.

You kiss like art.
Your lips drip softness,
clouds of being-enough,
plush, luxurious,
much like the interior of your car
with those bench seats I like so much.

I kiss like a vampire.
I can drink so deeply when lips touch,
an arterial spray of something lush
I can't place, but tastes like
home, like life,
tastes like so much being-enough
and not much like that dirty word.

This so-much cannot be the dearth so evident
in its utterance,
the ringing in it of
empty wallets and
sleepless nights and
what-came-before and
my stunted sense of expression
manifested in my love affair
when-was-before
with
brevity.