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more than sex, I miss the movies
P
o
e
m
s

 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.