i wouldn’t mind it if it were nonsexual.
if all we did was hold calloused hand in calloused hand
stand in the kitchen in our boxers, pressing sweet kisses to the other’s jaw. the smell of burnt bacon, long forgotten and filling the air.
i could place flowers behind your ear, call you a mighty *purdy* man with my accent that makes you laugh
could hold your hips, strong and square as we swayed to old folk songs in the living room
i wouldn’t mind it if we never touched at all
if it was just you and me, riding along in my shitty car with tires run bare
you brought a six pack with you, but i’m a lightweight so we end up splitting it 2 to 4 on the top of the hood
maybe you bring a blunt and i wrinkle my nose cause i don’t like the smell of weed but i like the smell of you.
could be how you hum songs under your breath, low and mourning
i don’t know what you’re missing; we don’t really talk about that kinda stuff, but i listen anyway and pretend that it helps
pretend that this bubble is not really a bubble. pretend it’s everything— your face in my hands— all encompassing and intuitive. it’s not, though, is it? we both know it isn’t.
but we can pretend. in this house we’re men. kissing, hugging, fingers trailing through the sweat of your spine, maybe not touching at all. never wearing shirts and flipping omelets, t-shots every tuesday. you outgrew your old shoes so they sit waiting by the door. no one will ever return for them though. impromptu tattoos with the gun we bought off amazon. you have a shark on your arm and i get a rolly polly on my wrist. crushed beer cans filling the recycling bin cause we’re thoughtful like that. hair clippings hiding underneath the bathroom mat, missed from the time you cut my hair a bit too short.
it’s soft and it’s loud, gentle and rough, a dichotomy of ourselves. women turned men. women who were never women. women who never had a name for the gaping hole in their hearts now filled with the words “tranny” and “faggot”.
it’s a dichotomy. contained inside a single home, nestled between two hearts. it don’t have to be sexual, doesn’t even need to touch. but its there nonetheless.
titsay
