you whistle
i'll hum
a dreamy lil lullaby
somewhere across the sea

french films
full of romance
and
duke ellington.

tall mannequins
relocated
without arms

peekaboos and a coochy coochy coos
for awkward laughs
before we change rooms

and you take off your boots.

winnie the poohing
you'll stay a little longer

tonight,
you belong to me.

breathing in the night
the heaviness
created by our four lips.

we creep forward
and back
and up to floor 4.


you'll buy a couch
and
i'll walk with a ghost
on a crisp August afternoon
out east and down south.

craving the intimacy
less than a day old.


and i'll smile
this smile

born from the thoughts of
your hand on my thigh
and
the sound of you whistling
and
the way you look at me
when

we're making up.

Somewhere lurking through the welcomed phone calls was a sneaky post on social media. He's got a couple of hotrod Fords and I've got a year old Ducati. We've got Willie and Dylan and peek-a-boos and twisting rings. Late nights belong to my couch and the horrid stench of smoke on his hands. We'll buy a birth gun for Rambo and watch the old timers play bocce on the water in Queens. He'll pretend to be re-building a Triumph while I pretend that it's fine that he doesn't ride. And we'll dance to Doo Wop with our shoulders. He'll spin me across the bench seat of his '51 Merc while we drive through the country on Saturdays and Sundays. My cheeks will burn from smiling and I'll yearn for his touch while resonating in the stillness that he hates. And we'll fuss and fuss and fuss on Wednesdays. Before and after movie night. When our bellies are full and off limits to raspberries. Because there's a sweetness that we can't let go and a playfulness we keep it tucked behind. He'll tell me to be careful in a tone that really actually means that he means it. He means it. And I swoon.