when you play on sunday (first draft)

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I love it when you play on Sunday,

when you cross your adorable

Hershey-kiss brown eyes

mid-song, at the precipice,

the bridge.

I love it when your raven black hair

swirls and tousles in a breeze,

and your body,

cloaked, encased, jeweled

in cadence and reverb,

sways and submits

to the frenzy of your performance.

I love it when I hear your song

on the radio, in bars, playlists,

amidst the shallow, fleeting parties,

where I’m tickled by pints of cheap IPA

and hopelessly strike flimsy small talk,

preferring instead

your creamy falsetto.

I love it when you sing,

when you croon and squint your eyes

like a child leaping into a pool

unfurling your curious, clumsy bangs,

brushing them with an artist’s sneer.

I love it when you play in the evening,

and the morning, swooning throughout

mundane Minneapolis, dismantling hoi polloi,

stiff business suits stained with half-assed lattes,

and stuffy cars fogged from March’s relentless frost.

your hands gouge the earth, reform your harvest

harness your finite work

sculpt your tender, misshapen vessel, as you cringe,

hammer through your growing pains

When your play on Sunday,

my least favorite day,

I don’t feel so bad.

Born and raised in CA. Film, literature, music, poetry, mostly gay/queer/GSM topics. Stick around if I haven’t bored you yet.

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