The Musician 

We don’t see each other often

and so I take pleasure

in the preparation.

Night time

languid at the mirror.

A few extra minutes with make up.

Freshly shaved.



Even by the rub of my jeans.




Because I do not love him

I love to watch him

move around the familiar corners of his room.

The objects he’s collected

and seen fit to keep.

Worn yellow sheets.

Binders of unfinished songs.




It always takes a while

For him to hang his coat and clean his desk and change the lights.

It always takes a while

For him to turn to me.

For the features of his face to rearrange,

and soften,

As though remembering.


His talent is in his hands.

Guitar hands.

Used to finding music with his fingers.

The practiced amount of pressure,

The precise spacing,

To grab a handful of ass

And strike a chord.




“I like you.”

I say when we’re done.

He is standing,

quick to put on a shirt.

“You don’t know me.”

He is smiling.

A truth revealed by hiding.




“My body likes you.

I like your body.”

Both are true.

He frowns and touches

his stomach without meaning to.


A naked reply.


He falls asleep fully clothed,

With me undressed and awake.

Zippered into the spaces he makes.



Baby lips with a slow curl at the ends.

Long hair that falls into his face

when he’s getting into it.


All the shapes and proportions

exactly what I like.

The legs strangely hairless.

The distance he places between us,

standing in

for self-esteem.


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