Art Gephyr



Pensive as a sage
Your teeth stood out
like ancient pillars protruding
through an overgrown forest
of turbulent beard.
Conversation struggled
to cross that thorny thicket.
Expectations sacrificed on
the stone altar of your brow.

We had laughed once
in the coolness of dusk
under the ruddy awning lights.
Your voice rumbled
soft, deep as a distant earthquake.
I had wanted to wake
in the epicenter.
Maybe I still do...

But I felt you receding
back to your shores of introversion
You searched for an excuse,
took your coat, lighter,
cleared your glass from the table
and walked away.


At two in the morning
I desert the row of smokers
half asleep with pillows of beer
and blankets of hashish.
At two in the morning
the cold air charges my gut
more potent than bitter coffee.
At two in the morning
sobriety crashes upon the bricks
under my soles,
each stone a tablet
my feet kick to the next page
of a hung story.

By day
I had felt the electric sting
of skin on skin
short-circuit through my shirt
when your hand rolled
from my shoulder down my back.
The flames burst me,
burned me, charred
like a solitary tree on the hilltop
carrying the full current of the storm
to the ground.
My body reduced to charcoal
crumbled as you passed.

At two in the morning
street lights punch holes
on a canvas black.
At two in the morning
crosswalks for the blind
serenade my solitude
in a cappella.
At two in the morning
I had waited...
but you never came.


Standing on the street
in front of your house,
I watch you watching me,
black button-down shirt
dark jeans, dark hair, dark beard.

It already feels like a distant memory
dark clothes on the floor of your dark room,
when I could barely see your eyes
but knew that they were open,
when my hand brushed
the soft curls between your legs,
when the awkwardness broke
into a landslide.

It already feels like a distant memory
fading, like the smoke around your lips,
like the teeth marks on my scapula,
like your voice when you exhaled