Slow

Olivia Smith

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

Red-rimmed eyes

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.