I don’t think that line works on boys like me, not anymore, not with your pants on my floor and we both saw this coming, that line I mean, and we both saw you cumming, I don’t need to spell things out. I am tasteful and tactful like a cop with hands on your throat, what do you say, yes sir, pressure building. I have a loss for words when stern Thursday nights reduce me to, “Oh fuck,” because, oh, we didn’t fuck, what we did was beyond any Germanic language. I hear some tribes have words for your eyes your thighs your sighs we have yet to translate so come over. I can wait because I can’t see anything else worth this.
There are these times when I think you have no snaps in your spine, like stairs creaking with nervous tics as synapses after synapses crushes the orbital of space and time when your eyes hit my feet on the floor and I recognize that look, the one they give when I touch your shoulder and you shrug me off like a mourning shawl. I can hit the ground like a seismic wave but you will remain too buried to demand anything from this reflexology. Everyone needs to be mad at something, everyone needs to be mad at something, everyone needs to be mad at something, everyone needs to be bad at someone. Do you remember when I lost my breath and found it in your hands last August? I need for those moments to be all that we have.
I find you under and between what we used to be and what we saw ourselves as. That one finger turns green and gold has chipped away to reveal different alkalines. Not pretending is nice but uncomfortable. They could call us deities, martyrs, for Sunday mornings where handfuls of pills warrant a social call like you’re the bell of the ball with your name over death’s scrawl. Someday I will be gone and that is the day this will find you. I covet these bruises because they keep me alive, but too long I have pushed them to be sustenance and now I am getting heavy eyes. Who the hell is this man in the mirror, his hand against glass like my hands against my face as I scream into skin that knew yours. I could wear this outside as a warning.
I prepare this resting place as an invitation for knowing; the way we breathe is more important than anything else when I look inside of you. So self-centered in the moments before we leave a room sometimes, like we inhale prayers, like your lips are whispers for only my eyelids. I miss not knowing you in a way that only future lovers can, I miss not knowing that someday I’d miss you. I want every part of your dry breath and every song that lulls you to sleep. I am trying to be sorry for someday falling in love with you.