2.18.01

Like two thumbs from the same body entwined you lean in your same as your fifteen-year-old cheek to my aged one and the delicate curls of your thick blonde hair tickle my nose more than I can feel your arms wrapped around my sides and back to my middle. But I notice your height, your leaning over me as though I'd never gone a day without it. It's your wedding and you're marrying my antithesis. And I'm indifferent about the whole transgression but for the dash of passion sprinkling over me as I contemplate this twist in our affair. Ours was a salacious road trip. Adolescents captivated by a passing carnal landscape. Under trees and stars, by mountain and shore. Through the glass sloughed the night and we were lugubrious in temporal miscarriage. I imagine she's not addressing me because she knows who I am. And if she doesn't know who I am she recognizes my threat. You do too. You're nervous. Your drunkenness betrays you and you thought it was me like I thought it was me when the DJ joked about your first love. You looked at me in relief as you walked by on your way to the dance floor while I shivered in nakedness. Love struggling to remain enwombed. We could've been twins for our fitting together, your hand my other, our bodies clasped and phosphorescent under the nightscape. Your bed. My bed. Eyes fixed across venues and years. You can't keep your hands off me. When you're near you're leaning, you're hugging, you're thanking me for being here. And if you thought it was just your secret from me and mine from you, our old friend proved us fools when he named our picture taken together, "This is how we all thought it would turn out." But what you saw past your window was not what I saw from mine; we traveled together disparately. Knowledge withal, I say: She is perfect for you.

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