Phantom Wings

He has such a soft voice, it fiddles with my
circadian, my fingers cut in for a dance with his

long branch-like hand. A stranger, but the tension
is an old friend binding us. “I like being awkward.”

Neither one of us let’s go, the unfamiliarity of
hand covering hand, the wet Floridian wind

between our shoulders. I used to be blinded by
boys who would apologize with trophies—I built

my collection of DVDs, vintage band shirts,
and video games this way, so many sorry’s.

There was some mud dug out of his big doe eyes
eyes. The skeleton was always exo on him,

the darling thing was always waning phantom,
a restless sea ghost wandering the edge for

resolution, only finding Epsom salt and
empty villas, violet days and gold nights,

reels re-taped together. Same scene spliced,
you’re smoking a cigarette while driving

along the coast, but this time I’m in the car
too. Red light, you look over at me, hold

out the burning stick, and our fingers linger
suspended again. The light turns green. The

wind throws my hair into my face, scene
fade to nothing but brown. It took almost

a year for him to kiss me, the limber blue
jay who couldn’t settle, kept setting his

twigs in different haunted houses in the
Southern states, riding along in the busted

Honda hatch-back. There was a soft red sun
just burning with reawakening, five in the

morning and I was heading North at eight.
Whisper of lips on my hair, my cheek. I

wanted to cradle his bones back into his
thinning skin, but I couldn’t make myself

touch the fresh marrow, soothing words,
“sorry for being such an asshole,” sincerity

with birdseed in the heart. I left with the sun,
without a bent-wing jay’s clamor in my palms.

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