Under your feet the grass sprawls in pleasure. My eyes lined up with your toes and I didn’t think I’d feel this again.
Asleep, the pattern on your dress wallpapers my dreams. Awake, everyone has your name, everyone has your look on their face, the printer jams at work and sings the high note in your laugh.
I’ve almost lost it completely. I am cleaning out my car in the middle of a Saturday. I am biting my straw in two as you speak about local government. I am rescuing spiders from your windowsill and my hands do not shake.
Crazed with watching, crazed with listening. At any given moment, you are answering the question. We are desperate to avoid eye contact; It is uncomfortable, to behold our wealth.
Max Oliver Delsohn is a transgender writer living in Seattle, WA. His work is either featured or forthcoming in Cutbank, Storm Cellar Quarterly , #Trans, The Voices Project, and Seattle University's Fragments.
