The dreams of lonely boys start there,
hemmed with glass and splashed with light
and distance.
The screen feels too close
in my bedroom as I boot up a romantic drama
while I roll a pair of cousins
and I smoke them in the dark.
For a minute, I feel like a man,
thighs heavy in grey sweatpants,
screen staining my bare chest
with its waves of color.
It might not seem like much,
but I have come to love my body,
though its golden hour passed
before I was prepared to capture it.
To love now is to paint from memory.
I wish I could show you what it felt like
to believe that it was out there:
A place. A life
where men like me could find each other
just by looking.
I wish I could show you what it felt like
to believe, and then to not.