of crisp new underwear made the night

          inevitably dense. Whatever I sipped

                    from your mouth swirled into a fluorescent

world of waiting. I stayed indoors on the off chance 
          I was waiting for an idea. My hands stayed inside

                    my pockets. Everything was chasing

warmth. The world was on the cusp of losing

          its nervousness until my eyes imagined
                    your body lounging on a beach chair

reading a novel and blood filled me

          like fresh guilt. To my astounded friends

                    who asked me what the fuck
I was doing, I said I was going

          with the flow. I wanted to be carried

                    by the world outside my door. I wanted

to carry my world inside it. It came as no surprise then
          when the world crystallized into versions

                    of you, brisk and sturdy, full

of the unremarkable everyday—

          small desperations and impulsive smirks.
                    When you waved your lit palm, I felt

like a child learning to read gestures, felt akin to those

          who chose to feel, my chest besting its honesty

                    every passing moment of ravishing.
The jewel of each of my nipples rippled

          their individual ambition. Whose eyes

                    delighted in this sinuous asymmetry?

It seemed there was a third pair
          responsible for the blurring in the room.

                    The seer with a deeply pedestrian glare?

No, it was you smiling a terribly long smile

          to sustain my waiting. At the door, 
                    I thought waited some God who had

the perfect teeth, the niftiest brows,

          the slenderest neck, in whose fear every night

                    I struggled to keep at bay the roaring
internet on my phone. Some days a mug

          of beer kept my bladder busy, some days it lay

                    untouched. Most dusks I adored the air

the door let in. Some dinners it brought you along.