ISOPIESTIC

In the middle of the crowd I finish smoking and you walk up, pigeon toed and distracted. When I look you over, as if this is the only time, as if this is the last time, I repeat to myself what it means to be an agnostic.

You are most precious to me, while you hold a white dessert box on the tops of your palms. Twisting your neck looking for a place to sit, and I make sure not to offer. I make myself a little bigger,

a little wider

and then kick the perpetual high boy with a scraggle of a beard and broken down teeth on to his skinny ass.

He stumbles through a curse, grabbing his skateboard, and telling me that he won't be back today.

The rest of you fall away, climbing the rusting fire escape, leaving us in the parking lot with the junkie standing around in someone else's unlaced sneakers. Only to ask you if you would ink his arm. I see the dried puss covering the sore in the pit of his elbow and for some reason I am surprised that he is left handed, almost as much, that he would want to tattoo something that he may soon be separated from.

But you are kinder in your words---than I am in my thoughts.

He leaves us alone, making sure that we know that his boss is going to promote him from a dishwasher to a cook.

"Very soon. Sooner that you think, within the week.", he says.

I stand, and move until my shadow shades your face, with two fingers touch the freckles on your cheek. You do the only thing you can do. You close your eyes. You close your eyes and you hold yourself against me.

Into your ear I whisper Hello, wondering what you last name is.

You are the most precious.

The longer I hold you the closer I become agnostic.


Address

The Comb Tree
42.316833,-72.656553
United States of America