a sweaty-palmed girl grasps our bodies,
one in each lonely fist. we’re plastic
figurines from two different doll houses.
you have three eyes and i cannot bed my knees.
i don’t think we’re ever
supposed to meet.
but sometimes, as if to tease,
closer and closer still, her hands
approach one another,
and we, riding along, snug
in the vices of those palms,
approach one another and i scream
soundlessly. the times when i
can almost meet your gaze
and when you can almost tell me your name
are unbearable, but then like a migraine
she remembers why, and flings you
far under the bed.
all rights reserved