i bike up the hill in the cool of the morning
thinking today will turn into a scorcher.
it’s the autumn equinox and
my soul still screams summer, probably because
i’m wearing shorts and sweating.
i look for coziness in a warming world where
we have no need for quilts.
i look for reasons to drink hot cider
from a mug
but find myself choosing a chilled froth instead.
i wonder if i will be different this winter
if my days will slow down and i’ll listen more deeply to the
beating of my lover’s heart
or will i only grow busier, afraid to slow down,
afraid to miss some tantalizing material drug that keeps me sedated
from the realities of life?
i want to listen more deeply to the beating
of my lover’s drum
because the scent of his skin is always sweeter
after he’s been in the sun
it gets me drunker than rum.
it is Wednesday night at the movies.
we sit in the parking lot outside K-mart
and i haven’t truly looked at your face in a week.
i’ve been immersed in my books and screens
in the depths of sleep while you
play your marimba.
i burst out, “do you still love me?”
with no precedent, and you hold me for a moment,
and you whisper, “yes, of course.”
and yet i still don’t see how i could possibly be lovable.
how anyone could love me.
perhaps that is the mark of humility,
but more likely it is a mark of shame.
i oscillate like a fan between self-love and self-hate
on a circadian timescale
every twelve hours, i activate genes of loathing.