*For Michael Osman, beloved storkman*

I ask you to read aloud from
your book on revolutionaries,
and you oblige me, the gentle
susurrations of your voice

battling the noises of the coffee
shop, so that I don't hear all
the words, and to anchor the
ideas in my mind, I end up

focusing on the movement of
your lips: the chocolate curve
forming the words familiar to
you―communism, hegemony,

anarchism―and the glistening
pink folds of your inner mouth
fumbling over a French phrase
I long to pronounce for you,

feeling dizzy with the desire to
kiss the sensual vowels, the
barely murmured consonants
into your throat. But instead,

I restrain myself in silence,
consoled by the flash of your
white teeth, the caramel of
your skin, your almond eyes,

their creamy brown placed
so firmly, yet demurely, upon
the page, giving me unusual
freedom to study the features

of your face: caressing the wide
curve of your jaw with my eyes ―
so chiseled, yet softened in this
moment with the same youthful

fragility of your small chin,
contrasting with the transparent
flecks in your dark, smoothly
parted hair, which reflect the

fluorescent lighting. It makes
my heart flutter with both
excitement and fear ― you seem
so open, so lovely that I can't

help but be drawn into adoring
you, even though I sense that I
am as guilty as this world in the
art of wearing you down; even

though I know I will never be
what you want or what you need.