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False Valentine, I Wrote You This Last Year in Letter-Form
I abstain from poetry, I try. 
For you, a formal constraint: 

handcuffs? 
Plain text is a new way to beg 

inside them, a please 
and I do, I have 

eschewed earnestness 
for articles of no

consequence, gif of the diva 
donning sunglasses, 

fifty new shades of
how-to-say-what-I-feel-without-ever-saying-it,

dick pics and see, 
my speech does swagger 

more sibilantly 
from our banter— 

faggier, vivid. 
I’m continually knocked-out 

by your eyelashes 
and your wit, in that order. 

My favorite position, 
when you held me,

my back to your chest like a child. 
We did this—only once? 

Memory is deciduous. 
Last season already blown away. 

The storm confused 
our reasons for being wet, 

it was the surf but also
the day-ruining clouds, 

their drizzle.
At this distance, I thought 

I’d still be hanging onto 
your slim hips, but
​
what I remember most 
is the book I opened

but couldn’t read, my persistent 
squinting, the gesture of 

your hand flipping the light switch,
a casual fathering. 

Another helicopter down 
in Hawaii
, you write.

Cats, the movie, is a car wreck 
worth rubbernecking.
 

No real crisis 
except the Astroglide 

exploded in your suitcase, 
Cupid interrupted,

made distractible 
inside the plangent grid. 

O fuckbuddy, my biggest
minor love.

O winter where I am 
restless and reach 

for my phone and
I did, I do sometimes 

wish for an always 
so please, please 

always fill my February 
with reports 

of your terrier, 
your expendable lols, 

a few fond portraits 
of disaster.

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  • HOME
  • WINTER 2022 ISSUE
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP