THE NEW WORLD |
Remembering, one day, all this will end, they meet up at midnight by the swing set, the air wet with fog. His hand runs through the hair she hacks off two weeks later, finds shelter from the cold in the heat of her back. This time, there’s no drunk, driving sixty in a suburb. This time, there’s no need to say a prayer. She lifts her hand to hold his face. Her thumb smooths his cheek, his lips. His eyes shut like coffins, hands tightening on her waist. How we find desire in the heat of skin and remember there’s more than only us and the rust. And life teaches us to defy gravity in favor of flying off somewhere where skin won’t tear. Oh, but it tears. So let life teach us how to live in this atmosphere. Let the moon project bright light. Let us collide like cars, but let us go slow, let us watch where we’re going, let us turn all these tears into something intact. |