Daydreams from the Cliche Saturdays of Our Future
I close my eyes:
we’re walking in Prospect Park,
it’s overcast and the wind has
blown your scarf in your face.
I tuck it behind your shoulder
as you brush an eyelash from my
cheek. We laugh in synchronicity.
I lie awake:
at midnight you are binding a book,
a gift for your mother’s birthday,
as I trace with my finger on your back.
You correctly guess one is a tree,
and as-per the rules, I must take
off an article of my clothing.
I’m at work:
we’re at a friend’s pot luck on
the Upper West Side, seated across
the table from one another.
Engaged in separate conversations,
we every-so-often exchange knowing
glances. Our eyes kiss mouths open.
I’m on the train:
I take you shopping down the avenues,
dressing you in whatever I find sexy
for the pleasure of seeing you in it.
There’s a party in Fort Greene later,
where we’ll shake the walls until the
sun comes up. But first, we fuck.
I’m all alone:
we’re riding home on a late-night train,
your head on my shoulder, your dreams
in my hair. We’re alone; all is right.
At home, you undress, crawl into bed,
but I’m not tired yet. I get my guitar
and strum in time to your breathing.
These are the fleeting moments that get me through.
They are the cliches I create to fill
the idle moments of possibility between
my then, now, and never.
Like videos captured on a cellphone, they’re quick,
silent, blurry, and amaturish.
But they’re all I have–
until I have you.
