slow dance.

soft morning light:

    & i am naming my desires,

    settling back into my memories,

        kissing teenage girls by campfires

        & lying to my mother.

i do not admit to wanting,

    even as i wake up beside the river,

    spilling water from my chest,

        considering dreams

        of white birds & cathedrals.

watching women

    from across crowded rooms

    is not enough —

        so i move to the other side

        of town & drink there.

a tender rain passes

    over the sleeping city

    as i pace restless

        in & out

        of my childhood bedroom.

violence, then —

    i would have preferred a hurricane,

    someone real to love,

        not faceless, whom to lose

        would be unbearable.