my days are a calendar of wants.

i want you beside me.

i want to run my fingers through your small black hair.

the rains are falling on the aluminum roof, and petrichor smells of bright things.

i want to know the fulfillment of flowers at the touch of water.

i want your velvet hands on my chin,

feline eyes staring into nothing.

i want to roll the cities between us 

and make them into a small bed to lie with you.

i want to wake up breathing with you at the edge of the map,

to move in you the way a tongue moves in a mouth,

like a shadow moves in light

for there is nothing beautiful here, in this darkness.

nothing in this blue room, now silent without your wings.

i recite age-long prayers for the safekeep of your lungs.

christ must come now, and his redemption must begin with me in your arms.

these nails are heavy, and my thorns are thick with longing,

the cross wet with desire.

sum this need, subtract scarcity and i am a plague’s cost.

late last night, my body made this scene: you playing the guitar with no gloves on,

your tender skin gleaming under the pale moon,

your reflection, a mist, alone on the river.

Source: From the Isolation Issue (September 2020)