“You write poetry?” “Not really. Nothing good.” “Like what?” I asked.
It was so much easier to talk to him in the dark, looking at the same sky instead of at each other.
It felt like we didn’t have bodies, like we were just voices talking.
“If I ever write something I’m proud of, I’ll let you read it.”
“I like bad poetry,” I said. “Please don’t make me share my dumb poems with you. Reading someone’s poetry is like seeing them naked.”
“So I’m basically saying I want to see you naked,” I said. “They’re just stupid little things.”
“I want to hear one.” “Okay, like, last year I wrote one called ‘Last Ducks of Autumn.’”
“And it goes... The leaves are gone I you should be, too I
I’d be gone if I were you I but then again, here I am I walking alone I in the frigid dawn.”
“I quite like that,” I said. “I like short poems with weird rhyme schemes, because that’s what life is like.”
“That’s what life is like?” I was trying to get his meaning. “Yeah. It rhymes, but not in the way you expect.”
I looked over at him. I suddenly wanted Davis badly enough that I no longer cared why I wanted him,
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