- he takes it off slow, like peeling the scales
- away from a fish
- dark coffee with no cream on the nightstand
- i tell him to wear it more often
- and he laughs
- sun pulls at my pilled blanket
- i should have changed the sheets before we sat down
- but i can't stop looking
- he tells me that the skirt is his mother's
- that he's only worn it twice, it's meant for dancers and nimble folk
- he hasn't gone dancing more than twice
- and he's never been to a club, or a bar, or festivals or parties
- anywhere that people dance
- reclining, i watch his skin slip away
- guided into hiding under plain cotton, dress pant darkness
- i tell him that dancing happens in this room
- i tell him that our room was built for dancing
- i tell him that any room can be built for dancing if you move the tables and chairs
- he laughs and i tell him when he looks upon me, pilled by the light
- that i will dance with him here
- that he and i can dance until
- i break my ankles
- until they splinter beneath me and i'm sent to the floor,
- cut by 4pm light
- watching that skirt spin spin spin
sep 24 2020 ∞
sep 29 2020 +