I.
I laugh when I realize you’re also noticing
the near-naked men in leather harnesses
on elevated platforms,
everyone feigning nonchalance in the line.
You look so polished in your white button-down,
so controlled and untouristy
we don’t struggle getting past the coat check.
Then bursting into the club with you,
the guttural thrum of techno
and how you aren’t afraid to dance, haven’t been
since that boy called you a faggot in the tenth grade.
When you’re turning around to get a drink,
I find myself randomly in awe
of your sturdiness, wanting to tell you
we came this far
or something equally trite
but instead I let you disappear onto the balcony.
We grant each other our private fantasies,
knowing only a few can converge,
lines perpendicular for a long second.
That’s how it is, I think, inarticulately,
as you return with a gin and tonic,
the sort of Zen repose I only get
when you’re moving your hips,
about to tell me a joke.
II.
We don’t get home until sunrise,
the streets orange-tinted and industrial.
Too riled to sleep,
we watch a free movie about a teenage drug addict.
We are burrowed on the couch like immobilized cats, grotesque,
not needing beauty. That is exactly what you do for me.
When I met you, we were chubby, suburban,
poorly-dressed, fourteen.
We didn’t know the first thing about our bodies.
We ate together every lunchtime.