Work Text:
your talk should ring the warning bells
but the drawl is making me drowsy
with want-want-want
and i remember /just a little blurry/
the promise you sounded before
you left.
I’LL COME BACK
I LOVE YOU PETER
seems like Morse code.
i’m too afraid to decode it, to
peel away your Prada layers again.
is it too late to smile hello into your tongue
——————
your eyes are suede shoes
blue & vintage & so-phis-ti-cation
trampling over
my deoxygenated lungs.
please walk away.
when you look at me
[gazing a parallel path to the hairs on my forearm]
your cyanide eyes gLiTteR
like they used to
over razzle-dazzle lollipops
your dad never let you buy
i buy you one from the 7-11
just for kicks
and you suck it slowly
i think my head will explode into a mess of webbed neurons soon.
——————
i was bored in elementary school once
and i looked up your name
HARRY: verb, “to persistently attack”
you, Harry, are like a harry
of memories
——————
your hands are a carnival
busy, outrageously pretty.
they look like you could wear a top hat
and bow and not be out of place.
as you throw each pebble across the lake -
every finger a taut tightrope
of something between
exhilaration | exhaustion
i hold my breath
because
do i have to buy a ticket to get let in
(to whatever this relationship is)?
your skin is dancing.
even the knuckles are in proportion.
——————
Portrait of Harry Osborn, age 22
blow-dried hair and gunmetal eyebags and wet eyes and
cherry pit lips and firm arms and scowling blushes and
strong hugs and shaded faces and fast walking and
witty talking and blazers-in-summer fashion and
black dress shoes and sand bowl cuts and
kissable jaw and harry and harry
and harry.