Sean A. Lovelace
Airport # 13

You got me Stonehenge. Neon blue. Hyperbolic. I keep inhaling words of glass. Hungry triangles. Lines and curves. Where we kissed. Where flesh pinkens, and radiates. What I mean is place, all its permutations. What I mean is metaphor. The way you lifted off; the way I stand. Against this afternoon, this copper-lit bar, with everyone and their computations—as in alone. I am the redhead digging in her purse. I am the fat man, slouched over gin, muttering into phone: "Is today Tuesday? Is every day Tuesday?" Listen: I'm not doing well. I'm all talisman, and over-flow. Wearing the socks you hid in the crisper drawer. They feel like skin to me. Is that weird, or wondrous? Last night, I had everything out, into the street. The brush of toes. The sound of garlic, of cotton pink. Sleep piled up on the curb like snow. Bartender, bring me a drink! A fluttering vodka bruise. A twist of thigh. An elixir the exact taste of an empty side of bed. Here are your favorite things: practical jokes involving maple syrup; actresses in Woody Allen films; sex on three Zimas and a Percocet; pistachios that refuse to open; the smell of dust. What the hell am I doing? You think I'm going to sit here and . . . It's the alcohol; all these wrong right angles. No, I won't lie. I think I just saw you gliding by, with your new life, so lilting home. So longest time. Everything exposed. And I can't say Y.


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