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I looked at him the way I look at a particularly stubborn semi-colon in a student’s lyric essay: I knew he was doing too much work, but I couldn't bring myself to delete him.
I’ve spent ten years pretending his voice doesn't make the hair on my forearms stand up like a goddamn lightning strike.
The humidity in Tulum was a physical weight, like a bad quarterly projection, and you were standing by the mezcal bar looking like a liability.
I knew I was over the line the second I saw her in that white dress, looking like a target I wasn't allowed to hit.
!["You're Going to Get Mud on That Silk"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you're-going-to-get-mud-on-that-silk"-425-cover-1780128052025.jpg)
Her skin tasted like expensive gin and the kind of rain that only falls when you’re somewhere you don't belong.
I watched you bite your lip when the minister mentioned 'forever,' and I knew then that your knees were already bruised from me.
Your hands were behind your back, your wrists crossed, and for a second, the only sound was the tide hitting the rocks.
You are the structural misalignment I’ve spent three days trying to breathe through, a knot in my psoas that refuses to release.