The Second Date

In Zeitgeist, we sat far apart on the sofa, both watching a documentary on Midnight Express, a movie neither of us had seen. I knew we should have been closer, so when I got up to use the restroom, I came back and sat very close to him. He grabbed my hand. I picked up his arm and put it over my shoulders. Our faces were turned toward the film, but my mind was elsewhere. I whispered and asked him what he’d like to do after the show. Finally, at the end of the movie, he turned to me and kissed me. We brushed each other’s lips and nibbled on each other until the director and producer of the film came to speak with the audience. He sat close, his hand on my thigh.

After the movie, we walked to a bar nearby. The bartender was in a dispute with a drunk and entitled customer about respect, and we exchanged entertained looks. The bartender engaged us in conversation about his customers, about his daily routine, and other too-personal topics. He asked if I wanted to walk around some more, and I told him we could go to his place. He looked a little surprised, but responded with something along the lines of “of course.” We got to his place and snuggled up again, no prompting of affection available. We searched for movies and put one on. Moments after it started, we were kissing again, tugging at each other’s flesh and hair. I straddled him and tangled my hands in his hair as we pushed against each other. He asked if I’d like to move to his room.

There, we peeled each other’s clothes off. He pulled down the shoulders of my lingerie and slid it down over me. He kissed down my chest and stomach. We rolled over and I asked if he was recently tested. He assured me that he was. He said he’d have to go look for some condoms if we decided to use one, and we looked at each other for a second before I shook my head and said “Ok.” We wrapped our naked bodies together, pressing against each other’s lips. We went to sleep like that. He’s a heavy sleeper and snores a little, but he looks sweet asleep. His body hair creeps up, untrimmed, to his neck. When his alarm went off for his pre-departure breakfast with friends, we laced up again, kissing and feeling the warmth of each other’s bodies. We fucked again and laid there for 20 minutes, talking about nothing meaningful, and then it was time for him to shower and leave.

He said goodbye, that he’ll be back in December, and we should do something together when he gets back.


The impulsive change is its own verse—

reveals more than than I ever intended.

With the children, my words are terse,

but they’ve found that I am defenseless.

A child, like them, in so many ways,

curling my hair and fixating on the mirror.

They know the dread in each day

the message louder and clearer.

I let the heater blow on my face,

run the tub and put off work.

They know that happiness is just a race,

run just as fast by a checkout clerk.

That, I’ve yet to learn, and I bury my head,

I hand out my tests and surveys,

In five years, they say, they’ll be dead.


The fucking, the candle,

me pushing for more,

putting on his sandals

and walking out the door.

I came onto set,

ended up in his bedroom.

Alone with a cigarette

thinking I’ll see my love soon.

I know how this happened—

because I’m weak.

I need to wash this off and have this end,

He and I were at our peak.

I’m perverted and sick,

forgot how to care.

Nothing ever sticks,

and I made myself a dare.

Each someone’s son,

not to be chased after.

I don’t dream of anyone.

I dream of disaster.

Being treated like a queen,

like a doll with strong morals,

but I’ll replay this scene

’til the bright becomes dull.

My record was clean before I lost control.

I ran around and lost myself,

just to keep from getting cold.

Canceled Flights

When you’re clean-shaven and have the world in your hand,

I’ll still be here, 5 steps behind.

When your next flight to New York lands,

I’ll have cancelled mine.

Time passes quickly not under your arm

not independent, but passing the days,

I wake up each day and ignore my alarm,

functional when I need someone to stay.

You asked if you could spend a weekend,

and I know my bed is the shelter you need.

You’d hold me and tell me it’s ok if it ends

if today it gives us love and gives us peace.

I told you I couldn’t,

apologized for the pain,

You said you knew it,

and you’re moving away.