Thursday:
Legs spill out of a window in Soho and we call to the ankles to let us up. Italian men and assorted models from the fancy parts of the world who dress like they don’t know how. You dress like them and walk like them, but you dance like us. I talk to you because you’re European and there’s a grace to the way you drink, an escape to the way you kiss.
Friday:
My apartment didn’t seem small until your long legs struggled to fit. You’re too big for NYC, too big for me. You talk about music I’ve never heard of and cities I’ve never seen. I can tell you anything because you won’t be here long, but I don’t say much. Your face scares me, it’s too beautiful to belong to a man as long as you. Beautiful faces should belong to small men, it makes them seem bigger. I feel plain when your hands aren’t on me.
Saturday:
I chew on the space beside the base of your throat, mouth wandering with labored regard--knowing this is the first and last time I will try you on for size. Your hair is bleached by a sun you don’t see because you sleep until two. Your cheeks look like milk and your neck smells like summer. Your hands could be anyone’s, this afternoon they’re mine.
Photo by: Kelly Balch
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