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.