2 a.m. pancakes

fingers find forbidden thighs 

hush hush underneath a blanket

of uncertainty and marijuana 

suppose our lips touched would 

they sting like thorns or bite like

mosquitoes or maybe just sweep

like little brooms, figurines of

little brooms made of porcelain 

(so easily breakable) yes maybe 

i'd rather just look at you than risk

dropping you i'd rather comb your 

hair than kiss your forehead we 

can be the women who say "what's

a persimmon" and then answer by

brushing our cheeks together instead

of the internet, or we could retreat

into the walled-up space with the 

escape window and incense doll

where the floor is make-up and 

oreos and trinkets with lazy eggs

from japanese subscription boxes

where you're lying asleep without 

me (what did i expect when i chose

riddles over fearlessness?) where 

your thin eyelashes brush against

perfumed air instead of my starving

lips and your painted nails can't tap

the bit of my back that protrudes 

from my humorous nest of bedding 

meant to coax the question "where

did you go?" which can be asked

in jest only for the next month so

i hope my knuckles find your palm

and my mouth stops saying things

like "will you pierce my ears" when 

they mean "will you whisper me a 

song about the time you convinced

me to stare at a singular stalk of 

grass so that i would stop panicking

about death" or "will you please put

on a dress with sequins and let me

take pictures of you in the lake" or 

"let's stop talking about breakfast 

and start tasting the bits of syrup

hidden in each other's mouths."

---

By Leah Waites