glint


to mince words.
sure, it’s a lot of bullshit
and rarely will anyone grasp
the conceited genius of it all.
man meets woman.
talks with
short phrases.
petty white lies to make the
spotlight shine a little brighter.
tempts by way of
subliminal gestures.

she touched her hair.
they say when women do that
they’re interested.
i wish she’d do it again.
just once so i can say that
someone found me
interesting to be with.
i could tell all my friends
that she
touched her hair
and they’d say
	so what.
	did she fuck you?
no.
	then it means nothing.
	you’re full of shit.
and why not,
i never tell people what i’m really
thinking.
even when i’m being honest.
she’ll look up from her
mocha latté and sigh for a moment
taking another sip before the
eternal question
bleeds all over her tongue,

“what are you thinking?”
and if i told her the truth
she’d laugh, but still i can’t help
knowing she
might think less of me
in the intellectual way,
i assume it’s important to her
because i myself hold it in high regard.
i should just say i’m daydreaming
of her moaning
when i go down on her
for hours on end.
something raw and animal
like that.
i could get a quick lay so easily
with this woman,
she would melt in my mouth.
but of course.
why didn’t i think of that
sooner.

sex is the almighty arbiter of love.
men want orgasms,
and women want babies,
and the only way to get both at the same time
is through the ultimate
storybook-fantasy
of making love.
life without it would be utterly
meaningless.
and sometimes i wonder if life with it
isn’t worse.
i could sit here sipping irish creme cappuccino in a
dimly-lit coffee shop listening to her soft voice
massage my eardrums until all hours of the morning,
not hearing a damn thing
she said cause
in my mind her words just
echo
echo
echo
like orgasms
with their perfectly subtle mischief
tugging at the corners of my mouth,
charming me into somewhat of a half-smile
and a slow blink
for her amusement,
i’ll turn on the gravity machine and draw
her closer when we strut side-by-side
through the rain holding hands and laughing
and jumping in a few puddles and getting
wet on the outside for a change.
and she’ll still think that because i’m a man, all
i want is the body and not the mind.
just like the rest of them, another
pig going to market to buy some
tenderloins.
a big bad wolf at heart.
what a big tongue you have.
all the better to
eat you with, my dear.

but
after she’s gone to great lengths
to find me attractive
enough to fuck for a night,
maybe two if i’m
lucky,
when she finally discovers
that all i had in mind was
a hug,
a gentle kiss goodnight,
and a phone number
on a post-it note surrounded by a cute little valentine,
she’ll know that i was
just bullshitting my way into
her life.
and if she’s the type of girl
that will laugh at the thought of that,
and lie awake all the way through the next
morning
wondering how quaint it feels, for a man
to start a relationship from
that end of the spectrum,
then i’ll be none the happier
to oblige.

but i’m still here in the café, four o’clock and the hours
still drifting by with the speed of
sound,
back to the simplicity of a small lamp
and an empty cup of cappuccino,
now and then with the subliminal tendency to bring that cup
to my lips only to find there’s still nothing left.
it almost reminds me of how she touched her hair,
i’m that intrigued by her.
watching her hands,
waiting for the telltale sign of attraction
to manifest itself once again.
and i’m patient,
for a while,
another hour maybe,
having spent a total of eight hours here
just listening,
and only then the stray realization blurts itself out -

	wait a minute,
what if she was just pulling that stray clump of hair
away from her face.
to make the spotlight shine
on her
a little brighter.
that would have nothing to do with me
whatsoever.
damn.
...
...
...i wish she’d lick her lips next time.





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