Creative

No Home Runs This Afternoon

Photography by Chanel Irvine

 

we laugh in our rummage sale kitchen

flat soda water mixed with room temperature despair

are we lost?

who asked that —

you say, it’s not a question; the question would be “who didn’t?”

 

sometimes i think about kissing you — not like a fantasy

 

i just think about holding your face, tender. stroking the part of your ear that curls like the beach near my house. my old house.

maybe i am lost.

 

later on you’ve complimented my hair; possibly for infinity: but

there’s not enough time to be anywhere

else. right now is too fierce.

 

you step over the splinter floorboard to come outside, kind of shinning like a madonna

 

i don’t particularly know what a madonna would look like — we must all have our own madonnas

the night has already ended,

but it was never meant to come; not Tuesday.

 

i roll you one

because you sat down —

and i don’t attempt to find the lighter not just yet. i can hold it here for a moment, toe-tapping;

you haven’t refused

yet.

 

and you (this) makes me think of golden

light; filling me; rusting me. away.