When I Met You, Nichole

Your form was foggy past
the box draped in plastic
film, with the papers full
inside decayed like pink skin.
And I could sweep my fingers
drenched in ink, a glove moving
magic across your eyes blurred
freeze-frame. How is it that I just
met you, and you’ve already taken me
into the sonnets hidden behind
your brevity. How could I not
know you lived down the block?
Ringing bells in the bagel store
waiting, in this town decorated
by wafting ghosts. If only I
could roam these roads and
clean the paint cracked on
my fingers bright blue. If this is
how it feels, I need you to
let the exposition sitting on this
desk fade into the bleach
spun in your hair, teach me the
ways your tongue played
the keys so that you can call me
your friend. Maybe we were
lucky. I can sketch you on dried
wipes all day, but perhaps I
moved this pen out of habit,
running the crumpled roll of
your cinema like it was nothing. I
want to act in the role of a taller
me, to take what I have seen past
the big plastic bin and crawl
out of this shell into your world.

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This is about the time I volunteered as a poll worker and made a cool friend from my community that I hadn\'t met before.