Him (Hymn)

I.

His breath on my neck,
and I didn't love him.


II.

I've still never held his hand.
I've never felt the brush of his lips.
I've never had him hold me.
I've never run my fingers through his hair.
I've never had him stare right into my eyes.
I've never gotten over him. 


III.

He was perfect,
absolutely, wonderfully, spectacularly perfect-
-until he opened his mouth.


IV.

He was half-black, 
white eyes
and black lips.
He tasted like cinnamon.
We were in a half-relationship,
dark nights
and white lies.
His brown butterfingers dropped me
like a bowl of sugar on the checkered linoleum floor.


V.

As a rule,
I don't dance,
or make the first move.
I don't make out with guys I've just met,
I don't kiss in public.
I don't grind.
I don't press against someone
whose last name I don't know
when we're both sweaty
and the pulsing music is too loud
and the lights in the club are obnoxious.
I don't pull him in close to me
and dig my fingers into his back...

...as a rule. 


VI.

It was really too bad,
but he was just too cool to date.
It's a good thing we never ruined our friendship
with anything mushy.


VII.

He had the prewrinkles of an easy smile,
and a nice chest,
and he knew it.

He bought me ice cream, and said he knew
just how much it had taken me to come over that night.
He knew he was the guy next door.

He said that he wanted "to fuck me so bad..."

Well, he should have known.


VIII.

My gaydar blipped,
but a part of me felt it was just wishful thinking.

He was nice.

Nice, and smart, and attractive,
and our conversations seemed to drift up
like a pondering balloon into existential clouds
slipped from a wide-eyed child's loose fingers.

And then I found out
that he wasn't as in denial as I had thought;
he had come out of the closet,
and walked into the confessional.

I'd never had Jesus be the other man before.



IX.

"For three months,"
he dated a guy.
"Turns out, I'm not gay."

I'll never listen to an accordian the same way.
He had the warmest smile,
it matched his scarves.


X.

He had an awkward laugh,
and conversed like a car unwilling to turn over.
It seemed like someone could have paid
a trumpet player with a plunger
to follow him around all day and just wait to play
that cheesey TV, molasses
"Wah, wah, wah..."

He was one of the most genuine guys I've ever known.

It almost broke my heart to break his.



XI.

His breath, again on my neck,
but I still didn't love him.