I am sitting on cement in front of a roller door and I’m in something like a relationship with someone. The garage doors function like a guarded gate to a castle. The guards are armed and they hold a gun to his head, demanding him to find parts of me to love, parts of me he’d like to have sex with. There’s no foreplay. I lie on my back. Stretched out, I reach overhead for the hand of a woman but the guards yell, ‘only crowds of two allowed.’ And then I scramble to my feet and run as fast as I can past the faces of men who’ve loved me wrongly to find the dark brown book I write things in. The faces melt away like streams of light of passing traffic.
(7/4/2020)
(7/4/2020)