I don't know if it's me or him

That feels too old, too distracted,

Too obnoxiously tragic for a backyard party

Citronella reintroduced to chapped bodies

Music pulsing like the complete discoloring of rectitude;

We sip whiskey from the bottle,

Stash our eyes somewhere adverted.

A few days before the swollen blue sky

Leaned over his sloppy mystique

Acknowledging his ridiculously pursed lips

Underneath an overpowering patio umbrella

He looked at me like he doesn't know summer breeds

A fantastic case of self-absorption,

Like he just learned my name yesterday

As a light breeze of this seasonal disease

Packed July hard into inseams

And now the highway stretches

Out like the line of his collar bone

He's just a hard mouth

And a cigarette in the passenger seat.

He tells me,

A warm body

Is a warm body

Is a warm body,

And I hate that he got to say it first.

Later he has to know that he looks like an offering

With his chest on open blueprint,

His features blurry and resigned.

He is a collection of miscommunicating sheets,

Passive limbs with the anatomical need for pretense.

I glance back from the door hinges,

Recognize that methodical mirror.