You are the sound I spit out
as I lust over vanilla dip donuts —
the “get ready. set. go.” of the boy
I’ll never forget — the stifled
songs I sing behind closed doors,
and the frozen ecstasy of silence
that we create because your parents
are in the kitchen cooking cabbage rolls.
You are the light filtering through
blue curtains — the other word
for dawn as dawn pries back our lids.
You are the self-sufficient pleasure
that calls us back full circle — you divide
this into one. I could live in the alliteration
of your sound; it ties us together, pulling
our bodies up towards the ceiling
as though there were strings tied to our
navels — toes curling — hands pressing
against hardwood. I translate you into
everything he is.
He begins where you end.