act ii

my hips grind against him and blue eyes looks up at me, smiling, in a daze, caressing my ass. i collapse beside him, he wraps me in his arms.

“you have this sweater that you wear sometimes,” he says, bringing his nose down to mine. “it’s green and pink. i secretly call it your watermelon sweater. you look so cute in it.”

i laugh. i wince. i think back to seven months ago, lying side by side in bed, telling green eyes about the first time i saw him.

“you were wearing this blue button-down shirt with a print on it,” i say. “you were walking through the lecture hall, i tapped my friend, i said ‘who is blue shirt’? i need to talk to him.”

he turned his head towards the window. “i have a lot of blue shirts.”

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on learning to like after you

green eyes has good teeth,

i should’ve been a dentist, he jokes.

seat mere feet from seat, four palms

two occupied with frosty clinking glasses,

(no salt on yours, he says, freeing one palm with a grin)

he takes off his rimmed glasses and wipes them,

“you look nice without those,” i say, he smiles.

your eyes were brown indoors and hazel in the sun,

your legs were short,

your shoulders, your gaze

cast towards your small quick feet,

your words sped when our tension thickened,

sludge-like with the absence of words until

our bodies found their ways to separate places.