false triptych #2
I. In the past you were stale and sticky like old beer and I could not peel your hands from my hips. I know I couldn’t look at you when you kissed me, but neither could I close my eyes.
II. Sometimes now you are a black hole that pulls me in at the top of the steps. Your shirt is two sizes too big and my hands pull it close around your waist, calming the air and closing a vacuum.
III. When you put your knuckles to your mouth to laugh, when your sleeves are rolled up just above your elbows, music is peeking out of your corners like light under a doorway and your eyes are a robin’s egg on the sidewalk, cracked open to spill a feeling that has no name or ending.
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