I’m Like a Sweater
It doesn’t make me easythat my freshman told mein the back of the bus thatmy hands were made of cashmere,his were too exceptfor the knuckles.Because what happened back thereis none of your business,only coffee pots of sexual tension boiled over into frog-like hands grasping one another.He was there,under the orange and yellow tollbooth lights,there he told me my hair wasGravity defying.I’m not trying to be poetic hereor anything, just providing a direct quote to establish a context,to show how he can lasso words from theair with satin thread.I was comfortable to him,the softest thing he’d put his head onand he allowed me to feel the force of his coat and shoulder pads because that’s what I needed then.I told him to hold meanother minute longer because we bothFailedour teammates that day but you’d know this is you askedwhere I was every Saturday from5 am to 8 pm.I would be linked betweentwo white chains,watching those who succeeded in being funnier than us.And we quoted those boys the whole ride home.In between conversationsheld by hands and knees,Innocent declarations of lovefor his ability to make mefeel safe even thoughhe’s younger than I am but you’re older
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