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I think of you,
says the man as he unbuckles his pants.
We’ve more than flirted for years.
Am I new and different?
Maybe exactly the same?
Do I run that stretch every night?
Do I think of you?
Perhaps; Yes. I have the luxury
of running that last mile until it ends.
We know exactly how it ends.
We’re too close, neither having done this
before, this way.
I want you,
says the man and he pulls me close.
And I don’t care, he adds, pressing his lips to mine.
Spooned together, we dream.
A sad blues tune plays.
Aren’t they all blue and sad?
You couldn’t possibly be asleep already.
How do I know if what I see as blue
is the same as it looks to you?
I don’t know.
I never have.
But I love that you make me think of that again.
So what if we see yellow
when others want to
see only blue?
Blue is not for us; I know that’s so.
Waves of thunder roll
across a dark but rainless sky.
It smells of rain.
A pair of pigeons silently copulate
on the cooled rooftop.
Because the sky’s no longer blue?
(Art by Tran Nguyen)