My stillness isn’t an affectation.
It’s 7pm drunkenness in day-glo vision,
Fairy lights on red velvet walls.
You put this inside me,
This lethargic hopelessness that’s not tragic enough
For strangers to start conversations about.
I wish there were
Or lips –
Someone’s little sister,
Hands slick from the cold of the glass
Hands tacky from the butt of the cigarette
Hands in mine;
But I want to taste the heat curled in your mouth, the ridge of your jaw.
I want bruises to bloom wherever I’ve touched you.
I’m sevensomething drinks in,
And the lights are up and men are
Trying to say goodbye to each other.
I walk home,
And I take off my boots.
You’re nearly as beautiful as I’ve been imagining.