by Emily Drouillard
we are on the jolty CTA being stretched across the red line.
the metal is cold, very cold, matching the grey sky
as foggy as my vision but you can still see me
even though you are looking down at your
cooking magazine Lucky Peach with the psychedelic green cover.
roots and leaves pulled from the dirt
are now a mandala worthy of selling words.
you tear out a page and draw a heart in sharpie,
the lopsided kind that boys draw which
betray that they spent their time doodling
other forms of human anatomy in their algebra notebooks.
they’re more endearing like that.
I offered you a pen instead this morning
but you wanted something more permanent.
I hand back four scrawled lines that sort of
bleed through the page and neither of us realize until later that
they sort of did the same thing to our eyes.
and we are on but not in bed eating sweet spicy chili doritos.
the purple bag, (is that a hint of magenta?) it crinkles as your fingers dip in.
I lick the violent orange dust off of tip of your index,
nail bitten into oblivion, but a lesser oblivion than before we met.
I’m wearing two sweaters; one is my mom’s.
I told her it was tacky when she bought it in New York,
five years ago when I realized I would be buried there
but not for a lifetime and I didn’t know why.
now I’m wearing it, because she’s usually right.
she tells me to keep you. and I take off the sweater
because I’m pretty warm.