it’s dark in the car when we get back. we’ve been walking up hills. we sat on the bleachers watching a soccer game go on. you said that you hate turf. after, we walked to the poetry reading and it was familiar. I couldn’t stop looking at your face turned peach in the stage glow, at your orange tie-dye coat. your hoop earrings. remembrance, not love, but it’s enough to make me wish. something. dusk, now, walking up hills. I greet the spider slung in its web, the blink-blink of my car unlocking. and when we sit in the car, the heat blasting, giving myself over to the feeling of tired, your hand reaches out in passing, touches my arm over the puffy jacket. I drop you off after an hour. love and want and solace are all tonight the same. I think I should know the difference. I think I might read this to you later. and if it were my bare arm, I wouldn’t wash it.
Megan O’Keefe is a writer and software engineer from eastern Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared on poets.org and in The Wellesley Review. She lives in New York City.