You left a message,
“Grab some booze, I’m coming over."
So I did as told and
waited: 11, 12, 1 o'clock.
As I dozed off with a glass of melted ice,
the phone rang,
5 minutes later, the door buzzer dopamine thrill
shot through me, and I ran down
8 flights of stairs because waiting for the elevator
would’ve killed me.
I leaned in for your neck
and met your leather shoulder barreling past.
You pushed the lift button
and pulled off your shades.
I saw those eyes cocked like fists
spoiling for a fight.
Upstairs I poured a couple fingers
as you pulled out some records.
Aaron Neville pleaded from my speakers
as I sang along from my dirty futon.
Your silence threw an uppercut to my ego.
A long exhale like a sucker punch
to my solar plexus.
I intercepted a stony stare with
a palm landing gently on your spine,
and we both sat there like strangers
at a reiki clinic.
This always happens when
we decide to look for words
for our 2am encounters,
our 9am Bellinis,
and the occasional 4pm “i miss you”
that carries us forward from week to week.
The words for what compels me
to set my teeth upon your cheekbone,
for you to paint my thighs
with your lips.
Words that make sense of all the waiting in between.
Finally one gauntlet drops to the ground,
you whisper into my hair.
“let me be with you when I'm not here."
So you light a cigarette,
put on some Dr. John,
and reach for a camera.
Text by S.M. Simões. Model: Jes Davis