Something Real

Angels and demons and queers,
friends, muses, and whatnot?
A blue rose turns yellow,
then bursts into rainbow
petals flipping day by day,
like photographs shared between 

the three of us.

I said I love you
to my ex-lovers,
to people I thought I loved.
So why should I say
I love you
to you?

"Chill it, don’t spill it,"
the carton warns,
as thoughts fizz like coconut water
between knowing glances,
playful touches,
and the careful keeping
of each other’s secrets—
bottled up
in warm midnight air,
somehow everywhere at once.

Drunk on lime soda and beer
beneath a gas station glow,
five TV screens buzzing,
your voice
and an ice cream sandwich
the only things keeping me
conscious—half-awake.
Your words ignite

a phosphene drift
a taste of light
I didn’t know existed.

Frank O’Hara’s ghost
dwells inside
Grace Hartigan’s brushstrokes.
Yayoi’s dots pulse
in the soft, hidden corners
of Joseph’s quiet dreams.

The sky blushes queer.
We’re somewhere between
midnight and sunset,
too far along the lines
to step back —
must step back
before getting too close.

And still,
I want to say
something real.
But instead,
I just said:

See you next time!

Because maybe
that’s the purest form
of love I can give