This is the slate city-lit window of another man who cannot bring himself to sleep through another night without a woman. It is not hunger for skin, it’s just to drown out loud visions of closed-mouth ghosts whose jaws screech in the back of his head.
When the water-eyed blonde comes, she’s shut her eyes at the sound he makes her emit in the shower stall, and it’s too late at night to discern his skin from hers anymore- his fingers in her, shoulder strands of her wet hair washed dishwater-dark in the shower, where she thinks they are alone,
but he checks the window, unimpressed ghost wearing no pout, brown hair piece-loose, eyes immiscible from cheekbones, lips in one small line against the vein-black shadows of an oncoming storm.
In the way-off there is a blinking red light, and when he splashes water across his jaw to shave, it flashes cyan. His black eyes are swimming- he has lost himself again. He joins her dry under the sheets, to make her sweat, to make her clench her thighs,
which only blossom ochre under his dim streetlights on her way out. She didn’t have a face, either, and he hangs onto his sheets to try and fall asleep, with no one to answer to.
Come morning, he washes her hair down his drain, and the streets don’t even have puddles anymore.
I traced character sketches into the salad plate’s divot with my fork as she talked, legs crossed, elbows on the table. Her fingers tapped on the tablecloth— she knew I wasn’t listening. I was unintentionally drowning her out with internal dialogue. She had painted her nails red, a rarity for her. Her look hovered at my eyes until I glanced up at her.
“Remind me,” she said, “I have something to show you.”
The waiter was at our table in a matter of moments, pouring wine as I thought of what she could possibly be on about. The inside of the restaurant swelled with ochre light billowing from the corners, and her skin was this brushed bronze shade.
Class trouble had never brought me any alleviation, and she knew it. I was incapacitated, past thinking of trivial gifts from her. She hadn’t bought any CDs in months, and if she had brought me a book, she’d have given it to me before dinner.
“What is it?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” she answered, making a motion with her head that said, “the waiter is right here, stupid.”
I had kicked my side of the covers down before she came to bed that night. Still I fumbled around with my own thoughts, dissecting a crossword in bed at the speed at which one dismantles a nuclear weapon, when I didn’t even have anything to be careful about.
It had been at least an hour since we’d eaten, and I remembered as she turned down her side of the covers and folded her glasses on the nightstand in ambivalence.
“Hey,” I offered as she closed the bathroom door.
“What’s up?”
“What was that thing you wanted to show me?”
“Oh, hang on.”
She opened the bathroom door.
“Oh.”
“Do you like them?”
“Those are… new.”
“I know. I don’t… I don’t know how I feel about them.”
“I… Hello.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Never would I ever have predicted this to be your surprise.”
“Not much of a surprise. It’s just… lace.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I like them.”
“I can tell. I don’t know if I do.”
“Why don’t you? You look…”
“It’s just fabric, you know.”
“Just— no. I feel differently. Would you come here, please?”
She crossed the room to the bed. I had sat up and planted both feet on the floor. We kissed, and she eased me onto my back.
“I was wrong,” I said.
“Hmm?”
“You might not know how you feel about them, but I do.”
“And?”
“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t like them.”
“Oh, what a shame.”
“I abhor them. Off with them.”
“Good try.”
Her thighs parted subtly, but she did not step down. She instead drove her hands into my lower back. Instinctively I pressed upwards.
“Not fair.”
“You didn’t ask nicely,” she reminded me.
“I’m sorry. Please, off with them?”
“I’ll think about it.”
I swept my arm under her, turning her to lie flat on her back. I was at level with her middle, and I trailed down as she peered at me over her chin.
“Yeah. You think about it. I’ll go about my business here.”
She didn’t have much of an argument for that logic.
this is how you write poetry:
belly-up in the gutter, dull rings
of petrol marring the edges and
rainbowing grey hues across the
sidewalks, like someone wrung a
sunset fuschia against storms;
we let doors slam on our way
out into the evening, steering
through cold-clotted woolen
stares from hollow-socket eyes
on the streetwalkers and men at
their necks; the liquor store buzzed
electric-slick at the back, staining
my shoes and her cheeks drove to
the curve of her chin in her fingers
at the counter, when black pupils
slithered past on the midnight el
train. cradling her chin behind closed
doors I knee-knocked her legs apart,
warming my fingers against her breath,
passing her lips under the liquor-thick
covers while the ice melted, forgotten,
in the crystal dishes and outside
it rained all through the night.
we had festival
dinner on spring
grass, dry but cold,
and the headlights
sent us out in a laser
show; then it was two
in the afternoon and
I called you in with no
distractions anymore;
they say it never lasts
when it’s that intense
but somehow you spent
an hour just tracing my
skin, scratching sparks
where fireworks later
blossomed behind my
eyes. you cracked colour
like shocked capillaries
at the side of my neck
as my hollow moans all
turned up loud, screaming
down your back; we were
hopeless, then, blinded by
nightlights we’d never see
