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You have this way of holding a cocktail umbrella like it’s a lethal weapon, and frankly, I’m waiting for you to use it on me.
I watched the sweat track a path between your breasts like a river cutting through a valley I hadn't yet mapped.
You didn't look like a tourist; you looked like a breach in a perimeter I’d spent a decade and a half building.
I watched the tendon in your neck pull tight when you laughed, a high-tension wire vibrating in the dark of the sleeper car.
The condensation on the window pane mirrored the way her sweat beaded against the small of her back in the dim light.
There’s a specific way a stranger’s thumb feels against your pulse when they’re deciding if they want to ruin you or not.
The lens didn't just capture her; it stripped the tactical layers off my soul until I was standing there without a rifle.
The way he gripped the stem of that Zinfandel glass made me want to be the glass, breakable and clear and desperate for his mouth.
He looked at me like a breach of contract I couldn't litigate my way out of, all sawdust and winter wind.
Her spine had this perfect, lateral curve as she reached for the railing, a mobilization of the thoracic vertebrae that made my own breath hitch.
Her skin was coated in that fine, glittery festival dust that gets into everything—your lungs, your gear, your memories.
I was a tourist in his tragedy, standing in a limestone cellar that smelled of old wood and new sins.