On the first date she wanted to make love in the dark, undressed
with the lights off, the curve of her silhouette shaped like an hour glass, her bra carelessly hanging off the edge of the bed.
twenty minutes later, she slid her shirt back on
her teeth brushed at my kitchen sink, she slipped out the door
with a promise to text me when she got home, and showed up again
two days later she showed up, old movies in hand and a bottle of wine,
but this time we didn't make love, we watched movies on my laptop, naked sprawled in a blanket in my backyard,
dark red wine staining our teeth. The stars above us
sang its calming winds and flickering lights, fireflies floating past blessing our night
The city in the distance, neon signs advertising for liquor and lottery tickets.
After three months had passed and she still hadn't called, I came round
her apartment with tickets to the art show at the museum, romantic
and caught her sitting on the bed, shirtless.
I embraced her. Our bodies fitting so neatly into one another like the last lingering word
of a sentence and its corresponding comma.
At first I considered telling her i loved her. Her absence had caused me so much pain,
but then I realized that the reason she always wanted to make love
in the dark was because she was scared of commitment,
and I quietly let myself out the back door and left the tickets on the hood of her car.
She ran out, barefoot in the snow
reminding me of something out of a John Green book. She ran to me and kissed me, she uttered, i love you
She had a look, one of pure joy,
as if she'd been falling headfirst to some certain death
but had finally found a way to pull out a parachute and slow the descent.
YOU ARE READING
gas station flowers
Poesíacoming of age poetry by a queer young adult writer. navigating relationships and the coming out process. peak inside the mind of a young woman with a mental illness.
