Let’s move to Toronto, make home
of another unstained city, our
boxes drop, press their ear to
hardwood floors who never
whisper their histories, we
can all be brand new, charming
in our newfound novelty,
so easy to be loved
as a blank page, possibility
blossoming from every
fingertip stamp we make.
In Paris, I am a mystery,
baguette and jam on my
lips as I read by the river,
the romance of simple
intimacies in new corners.
Mexico City finds me
blushing, dusting off my
Spanish, explain to a
barista my whys and
really feel how tender
another man’s patience
can be.
I crack a joke in Limerick
and the Irish laugh with me,
my confidence blooms, but
I don’t dare try again, better
to revel than risk unraveling
the moment.
In Geneva, my face finds
the sun, eyes squeeze shut, I
am a boy, small-town Indiana,
and the world feels so immediate
and profound.
No company more constant
than the self, so let us
remain curious lovers,
invested in understanding
more, winking to the
others with a knowing shrug,
as if to say I know, I know,
but he’s mine.
