Coerced

Just kids playing with their hands

Cover your eyes and count to ten. 

The others will find you, here --

peeking through their fingers,

splinters between branches cold in the night --

you not knowing how to say

with your lips without talking --

her.

Cover your eyes and count to ten. 

No one look, the gravy cup shot glass takes you,

you move with the grace of almost, 

with the skinny shy beat of inebriation, hesitant. 

They are still waiting, children

preying on your decision:

which tender cheek. 

Meaningless, not quite drunkenly driven

they cover their eyes, you count to ten, 
you find her and press, kiss,

wisps of hair obstructing. 

Moment quick and quiet, unannounced.
Soft rosy liquor-scented breaths. 

Afterwards, the lions creep, smiling; 

she, too, reaches for her drink; 
secrets spill from glasses and yet
the world does not move an inch,
the kiss melting ice floating in your glass.

Blind Devotion.

Hidden in afterthought -- that's all we are.

I must learn to make peace with your hands. 

Knees Bent

Crossing the Line.

You learn a lot about a person from drawing them, I have found.

His eyes are wide-set, single-lid, light. Eyebrows parallel mostly, a bit more shading under the lower lids, there where he stays out at night. His face doesn't hold so many shadows but the light source is questionable. There are lines around his mouth when he smiles -- bone structure; I like the skin that stretches over it and the creases they fold into.

His neck is shaded darker, lines here and here and here. Here, rumples in his shirt; he is slouched forward slightly. Set his shoulders a fair width, not too far, wrinkles where his arms bend, where his sleeves are rolled, darker where his muscles hollow. Trace the pockets by the forearms, crumpled forward the way he is leaning, buttons dark against minimal lighting. The four lines on the lap of his pants.

We have barely spoken but I see him smiling with just his top row of teeth; details I cannot copy. For all my trying, he will never be whole here. Here, leather-bound and hollow-mouthed. Here, charcoal on a yellowing page.

Doors

made some time ago

If we can’t run away from our problems, this country will collapse under the weight of all its monsters. So let me keep running.