"sexting"
my shirt smells like coffee. you take it off me and run boiling water through it. the resulting liquid is pale and slightly fragrant of coffee and sweat and cologne. you take a sip and set it down, coffee is best after it cools. you remove my pants to run water through the cuffs. we now both have coffee. we drink our coffees and i leave, naked, my clothes drying on the chairs at your kitchen table. you wonder if i will call you tomorrow. i get on the bus.
"sectional couch"
i don't remember what we were watching, but it was on tv and it was late. we were in my parents' living room and it was dark except for the tv. i sometimes feel like if i could just remember what we were watching, it would provide just enough context to process what happened, we were sitting on opposite sides of the couch at one point but then we weren't.
maybe the tv wasn't even on.
we were close friends. in a way, we still are, but it was different then (i still think of you often and fondly). you put my arms around you and i thought you might be sleepwalking. i felt your heart racing against my forearm, i realized you weren't, i'm sure you could feel mine racing through your hair. we sat embraced for anywhere from ten seconds to a minute, i was trying not to hyperventilate, maybe you were, too. maybe i should have kissed you, then, i still feel like it's one of the worst things i never did.
we spend whole lifetimes convincing ourselves these moments didn't mean as much as they may have.
you moved my hand lower for a brief moment and then moved it up again, leaving my left arm across your chest and my right hand resting slightly below your belly button. i had no fucking idea what to do, and so i did nothing, i held you and we breathed in nervous heaves, i shoved my face in your hair while you did what you had stopped me from doing. i closed my eyes and thought of nights we laid in front of your house and looked at the stars. i replayed every pop song you'd ever played for me in your room.
you fell asleep on my chest, but we awoke on separate ends of the couch. we never spoke about it, we stayed close and never spoke about it.
i think i'm still trying to recreate this event to this day, this closeness that cannot be forced or planned. i don't know if it's even possible, i don't know if i never want you to read this.
i sometimes wonder if you ever think about it.
maybe the tv wasn't even on.
we were close friends. in a way, we still are, but it was different then (i still think of you often and fondly). you put my arms around you and i thought you might be sleepwalking. i felt your heart racing against my forearm, i realized you weren't, i'm sure you could feel mine racing through your hair. we sat embraced for anywhere from ten seconds to a minute, i was trying not to hyperventilate, maybe you were, too. maybe i should have kissed you, then, i still feel like it's one of the worst things i never did.
we spend whole lifetimes convincing ourselves these moments didn't mean as much as they may have.
you moved my hand lower for a brief moment and then moved it up again, leaving my left arm across your chest and my right hand resting slightly below your belly button. i had no fucking idea what to do, and so i did nothing, i held you and we breathed in nervous heaves, i shoved my face in your hair while you did what you had stopped me from doing. i closed my eyes and thought of nights we laid in front of your house and looked at the stars. i replayed every pop song you'd ever played for me in your room.
you fell asleep on my chest, but we awoke on separate ends of the couch. we never spoke about it, we stayed close and never spoke about it.
i think i'm still trying to recreate this event to this day, this closeness that cannot be forced or planned. i don't know if it's even possible, i don't know if i never want you to read this.
i sometimes wonder if you ever think about it.
"self-fulfilled"
i have always had a yoke around my neck, as heavy as the day is long, some days are so fucking long. most days i can trudge through, but on these longest of days, my yoke is an anchor dragging me to my knees--a dead stop, i keep pulling regardless. my knees scrape against the ground & my palms follow.
i trudge through most days, never stopping, fearing a loss of momentum will drag me down. it always happens at night, down on my knees, digging my palms into the sharp ground, leaving handprints in hard cement as a testament to the weight of this yoke that has always been around my neck. i have made this broken-in pillory for myself.
i trudge through most days, never stopping, fearing a loss of momentum will drag me down. it always happens at night, down on my knees, digging my palms into the sharp ground, leaving handprints in hard cement as a testament to the weight of this yoke that has always been around my neck. i have made this broken-in pillory for myself.
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RYAN X. PETERSON loves dogs, coffee, San Jose, and that's it.
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