The gallery.

I first wrote this roughly two years ago, in April 2021. This is the first time I'm sharing it outside of Whatsapp. Happy Valentine's day.

Whoever said it was impolite to stare never saw you do it.

I’ve been reading more poetry lately, in between reading you more, nakedly, and I suppose there is some sleeping magic in the novelty of your curves, docile witchcraft in your body’s twists and turns. Every verse is an attempt to find you, eyes riding gently over your calligraphy.

Upile Chisala wrote;

“now that I know the soft magic of your laugh and how your body moves like art, why would I ever go back? what was before you?”

and for a moment I compare you to the art on the walls of this gallery, thanking a creator momentarily but there is nothing about you that isn’t beyond all the art in this universe. And so, I just stare at you laughing from across the room.

Whoever said it was impolite to stare never saw me do it, or you perform poetry with your positions of gaze. They’ve never attended the solemn concert that is our staring contests, quietly fucking each other with our eyes in a room full of people. You say my eyes constrict when I climax. That may be true, but yours fall away coyly.

We know our eyes better than the rest of our bodies because what we are is as hushed as this optic romance.

And I have never felt the gentle rhythm of your body against mine, or the subtle tremors that your body could make as your eyes fall away coyly, but our gazes meet again. This party is the canvas for the art that we’re slowly becoming // we’re coming // to a silky cadence // heaven’s magnificence pales // to the masterful creation // that is your body // and there is nothing else in the world but us;

but there is no impertinence here. No hurried words or insincere compliments, only silent worship. Hushed awe of perfection, a precursor to stillness as reality sinks –

I am not the man on your arm tonight.

Or on any night.

Because I am not yours and so all I can do is stare, and let you ride my dick in your head because there’s someone else in your bed. And so, I eventually say hi to your boyfriend.

And you might be uneasy beneath your dress, but you still laugh loudly when I make a joke he doesn’t get because it’s about the kind of things we laugh about. Then you tell him you’re thirsty and he leaves and we stare, in the middle of this art gallery, at the only pieces of art of interest to us.

And you say you wish we became some more and I reply:

“I’m fine with being your one indiscretion”.