He’s quiet, sleeping almost, naked and thin on the bed. i could leave
and he wouldn’t notice, mouth open to the dark gun of his throat,
teeth apart. i’m reminded now of little red riding hood who,
confronted by a dark place, didn’t try to run. she’s waiting. waiting is a kind of reaching.
i’m reaching, reaching, and he lies still, knows that each thing he wants will come.
are you going, he asks. i’m holding my metrocard, he paid for my metrocard.
don’t go, he says, give me a kiss.