Something about a city at midnight, concrete and full, lights speaking between the cracks
\nour feet do miss; here, January 1, 2012, hand raised for a cab, unaware and unprepared
\nfor what is waiting:<\/p>\n
How I could sit with her across from me, a bag behind her and full of something and my eye
\nis crawling over it–it’s a deterrent, a challenge, a mistake–as she tells me that she
\nstill has feelings for her ex, as her hand touches my knee, her elbow on the false
\nmarble countertop, her eyes are the only thing breathing;<\/p>\n
stumbling into the door–did it crack?–and pulling her to me, giggling, but feeling
\nin control, her legs wrapping around me and pushing down on my cock–pressure, almost
\npressure–and my left hand feels the dips and lines of the door and I am lost in here, stumbling into
\nthe room, lost and cancerous, falling back on the bed, the mattress moves as we move;<\/p>\n
and press repeat and tip up another drink and hail a cab and explore her body in the back
\nand mumble and hear her say “I bet you are very excited” and not realizing–never realizing–
\nthe hate this will engender, the absolute fear of being so flippant with my skin, the fully
\nsuffocating next day, the way light seems to pick the rooms it will grace;<\/p>\n
and June came like the highway through these memories–free and winding; perceptive and freeing;
\nconstant and divergent–the highway to ride through, she letting her guard down once, leaning
\nback on the bed, rushed and tangled, grasping my head like a painting of midnight, how empty
\nwe must have seemed, how empty and reaching;<\/p>\n
watching the tree above, three AM, July moon trying to force its wings to fit between the
\nbranches and leaves, falling and flying, rushing across my cheek and then her cheek, the
\nmiserable line between night and hope, constructed first when our fingers locked pulling with it
\ngrass and soil, coming together like a blade in that moonlight, tearing and lampooning our
\nown needs until finally, there was silence;<\/p>\n
becoming more comfortable with my own need for intimacy on selfish terms, December and
\ndeceptively warm, walking these same streets, finding and avoiding these same cracks, wondering
\nat the marvel of it all, both taut and miserly, the boy next door navigating
\npost moral america, learning nothing about this loss except that it is loss and has no
\nother meaning or surface.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Something about a city at midnight, concrete and full, lights speaking between the cracks our feet do miss; here, January 1, 2012, hand raised for a cab, unaware and unprepared for what is waiting: How I could sit with her … Continue reading