Whatever wet the nylon field

By | 15 February 2023

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.

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