i. it’s the morning after, and in the elevator, you almost tell a stranger the whole thing.
ii. her eyes turn colors in the sunlight and leave inksplot thumbprints somewhere inside your solar plexus.
iii. mostly, you wrote poetry about meeting somebody like her, about what she would taste like, how her hands would feel against your face, how her hips would rock and how that little pink mouth would let out a little pink moan that would linger in the air like a perfume.
iv. sometimes, you wrote poetry about death.
v. sometimes, you wrote poetry about meeting death, about what he would taste like, how his fingers would feel against his face, how your mother never cared anyway, how boys like you with their red raw mouths never let the sadness out but rather champ it in a silver bit in the rusty back of your throat.
vi. in summer thirst, your words dry up around her. you have never been able to hold her. you want to ask her about the universe, about the new pictures of pluto, about her family, about whether she prefers coffee or tea. you want to spill out your river secrets into her sea.
vii. her eyes, man. her eyes, and how they glow. her eyes, man, and how you’ll never get this trainwreck body to come up close.
viii. last night, after four shots, and with shaking hands, you finally convinced yourself to unpeel flowerpetal limbs from the far wall and walk over and confess it all
ix. last night, before you got far, she kissed someone better than you, who writes poems about roses and stardust and ribcages and veins and reads Bukowski on saturdays. last night, you walked away.
x. it’s the morning after, and in the elevator, you almost tell a stranger everything. you watch your reflection in the doors as they open. you tear in two and bite down and say nothing.
— boy howdy that hurt // r.i.d