now, apocalypse
He enters my thoughts
His lanky form flashes or drifts by
(depending on the hour).
I savor these glimpses.

I make up songs about being in love
With a boy like him,
About how our talking is drenched
In laughter and pale blue comfort.
He's got crooked teeth
And an upright spirit.

his hand
now, apocalypse
I look at his hand.
It seems stretched out,
Like a wet sagging shirt
Waiting to dry.
The fingers, like spindles.
I know they've been in Metol,
But never in mine.

Ups and downs
now, apocalypse
I wonder all the time if he'd want my ups and downs.
I wonder if he would stay up, if his hands would ever stray down.
If I reached my hands up, would he bend his head down?
When my eyes shoot up, do his defenses fall down?


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