In the thick cerulean light of evening
A dyke astrophysicist’s dream
I pray to any god who will deign to hear me.
That’s my actual tongue circa 2014 in the photo. I thrive on bad choices.
Rose petal tea isn’t pink.
Pretending it never happened isn’t going as well as expected.
I see violets blooming between her teeth.
“I can’t compare her to pancakes. That sounds vaguely sexual. I know… I’ll change ‘pancakes’ to ‘crepes.’ That makes it deep.”
Rain: translucent, crystallized youth on sticky, tender lips.
Third time’s the charm.
Why are all the men I’m attracted to old enough to be my dad?
What does it take…?