Quality Time: A Prose Poem
“No longer hungry, New York, no longer the starving artist.”
Waiting outside the Midtown West wine store while my boyfriend picks up two bottles for our friend’s bunny’s half birthday party for which we are two hours late, for which my hands are freezing as I type this in the 36 degrees and wind, for which I offer waiting outside the Midtown West wine store while I watch my boyfriend through the window, like a silent movie filmed through skyscraped-mirrored-glass.
“Eating dragonfruit from the bottom of my drink at a party, watching your daze across the circle. See, mark, me writing this poem as you embody it.”
You in the kitchen, dressed up, screenshotting the queue before kissing me, spinning me around before opening the oven door, before I become sharp enough to drill into the ground, before I become buried in this, you, fear of burning the baking, my fingertips cooling against the countertop.
“Switching spots on the subway train. Standing on your left side so that I can hear the music and still hear you speak, I don’t wanna miss either/any of it.”
Starting the songs over.
“Calling you baby in private because I like keeping secrets, and I like when words flee after I’ve said them, I like how much you remember of what is…
