Slow bubbles of gold
sticky on my eyelashes,
lips damming the mess
from my cheeks,
you are a sweet
I can’t taste.
The salted sting
of never collapsed
into my chest.
We are a selfie you took
at the bus station
beneath a bright gray sky.
If I look at it now,
I use my thumb
to cover the anxious swirl
of my face.
I let my hand linger
on your hip after our hug
before I knew
the bruise of it.

James Roach (they/he) is a queer, trans, sober poet most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? He currently lives in St. Louis.
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