Work Text:
The sun comes up and it does something mesmerizing to his freckles. But he’s not in my bed, so this is not a poem.
We’re talking comfortably, too easily, open and not open at the same time, and making people wait for us on set. When silence finally falls between us, he stares at me like no one’s watching, cause no one is. There is a shyness in it that makes him look younger. There is also a challenge, but hardly convincing. I’d say it doesn’t reach his eyes, but it doesn’t reach his lips.
I find myself wishing he’d reach mine.
If we were brave enough, this might’ve been a poem.
In my trailer again. I think he’s stalking me.
He thinks I’m funny and I think I’m high on it.
I think I overdosed on it.
The couch feels heavy somehow, like it gave up on the one thing it was made to do. He keeps getting closer and I think it’s on purpose, but does he know it too?
I’m showing him a video on my phone and I feel the back of his neck touching my shoulder. I close my eyes and the smell of him becomes all-consuming. If this was a poem, I would tell you how much it smells of-
I would tell you everything.
But this is not a poem.
I think we’re both a little tipsy.
Very tipsy.
We’re telling each other stories of how we got our ears pierced. He pretends he doesn’t believe me. I think he believes a lot more than that.
There’s no reason for him to touch my earlobe, but he leans in to inspect it, looking for answers to questions only semi-related if you want them to be.
He kisses my cheek very briefly, a bit too close to my ear. The gentleness of this touch nearly overwhelms me. Is this, finally, a poem?
He looks worried, unsure, on the edge of something. In an alcohol-infused haze, trying and failing to ignore how tight my pants had become, I can only stare at his lips still very close to my face. The corner of his mouth twitches into a careful smile, revealing a sense of disbelief and eagerness. He kisses me.
Weeks go by and I start to question if it really happened. Days go by and he asks me to go camping, just the two of us.
I hope this time, it will be a poem.