You are sour. We sit soaking in the school fire sprinklers listening to the music playing in our heads. We almost fuck. But you leave and I spend the rest of my life wondering.
Your hair is black like oxidized, polished iron. Blades curved deadly across crown. Brave fingers pull it back in circles, a mimicry of fingerprints, dancing around metal. They’re careful not to catch themselves. Your hair distracts me from the panic of school, summer, and love’s first ending. I yawn and shudder. The shakes break in tides against your sturdy body. I am tired but I want to listen more about your pet turtles and the houses you grew up in. I don’t kiss you despite how much I want to. Some savage part of me wants to eat your hair, to gain its properties, to feel the beauty it brings. But I’d rather feel your beauty falling across my nose, ticking, than forfeit it.
Plump hips rock the cracked particle board Ikea bed frame. You needed a place to sleep and I was leaving. Cupcake tattoo on fat brown ass. Cherry on top. So are you. I escaped my panic in the solace of the small of your back. Nascent shelter. Take me out of this unemployed, student debt, identity crisis. Fuck the stagnation out!
Teach me not to fall in love. Teach me how to take it up the ass. Teach me how to discover new bodies. Teach me how to cum like you do. Shaking and curling up like a dying beetle. Tell me about all the latest sex toys. Explain what is happening in my brain while you stimulate different parts of my body. Show me how much pleasure can come from exploration.
You hang low from my bony fingers. Pinball back and forth between knuckle and tongue. Round and wet in crevice webbing. A place where you are only mine. But grips are fleeting things.
Meet me in a strange hotel. Say nothing. Pretend no time has passed. Wear a suit (it can be old, it doesn’t have to fit). Comb your Disney Prince hair. Present your horns!. Lie to me about your day, don’t tell me about the other people you have fucked, don’t tell me that one of your boyfriend’s took you sailing. Just shut up and lay me like you’re straight and monogamous.
Your cock is like the last page of a very good book. I have to cover the last few lines with my hand so my eyes don’t accidentally skip ahead and spoil the ending.
Alex Vigue is a queer poet and storyteller from Vancouver, Washington, with a bachelor’s in creative writing from Western Washington University. His collection The Myth of Man was a finalist in the Floating Bridge Press chapbook competition and was published in 2017. His work has appeared in Vinyl, Maudlin House, Lockjaw Magazine, and elsewhere. Alex substitute teaches, works retail, and strives to make poetry accessible to everyone. Links to his work and contact information can be found at alexvigue.wordpress.com.
Photograph by Artur Pokusin.