by Anthony Aguero
Last night in the parking structure,
You rummaged through me, emptying
My pockets and mouth and ribs
And the small lily taped against my ear.
You took all of these things knowing
The evening was cold, knowing the spare
Key sat at the bottom of my shoe.
You no longer wanted me is what.
It was midnight and you wore yellow.
It is so hard to desire things — you --
In this amount of dark but I kept on
Despite the trouble and empty hands.
I assumed this was moving on minus faith.
The first man to love me wasn’t you.
No, he wore reds and greens. Loved orchids
And the sound of oncoming trains.
You wear yellow and blues, you prefer
The steady clanking of blinds
During a late Summer breeze.
We sat idly with the evening
Waiting for the pitch of night to speak;
To demand the next move. It never comes.
It never does. You kiss me, flaccidly,
Along the forehead. And disappear
Into the bathhouse. Leaving
A crushed lily in my shirt pocket.
Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared, or will appear, in the Carve Magazine, Rhino Poetry, Cathexis Northwest Press, 14 Poems, Redivider Journal, Maudlin House, and others.
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