Evening - Brad Duran

poetry ☆

poetry ☆

Outside colors fall mute as the sun obscures behind the horizon.

The world is increasingly intimate,

as aging sunbeams atrophy, the hum of car traffic sinks,

and conversations muffle behind closing front doors.

I don't have the stomach to close mine,

feeling there's still something to siphon on the evening air;

the faint comfort of being thread within fabric,

the waking world’s embrace,

electric, even as the evening grows overripe.

Inside, all the lights are soft,

and the lights in the kitchen don't turn on at all.

Come evening, warm oranges and pale blues beset the interior,

as if the dimming sky impressed bruises on the walls.

And outside, the crickets ease into symphony,

my neighbor washes dishes in view of his kitchen window,

my prayer plant imperceptibly wilts, I think,

and, when you look closely,

you can see the cat's body rise and fall with her breath.

(I get emotional thinking about how tiny her lungs must be.)

And with the front door ajar, I close my eyes,

never admitting how far, really, the day has waned.

And in interim of breath,

the switch that dispossess me of consciousness,

is thrown.

Then you're there.

In dream, we say good-to-see-you’s

and in so many readymade vignettes,

we shelter from rain,

or fold bedsheets into smaller rectangles,

are arranged in new ways,

and your fingers fill perfectly the negative spaces between mine.

and we tire of each other again

and again.

I start to stir, needing to close the door but anxious to sleep another minute, unsure of when I’d get to see you next.

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Brad Duran is: eating at all the coolest restaurants with all the hottest guys, getting tangled in a bramble of thorns, laughing at their own jokes, and maintaining a sense of decorum. They are some sort of gay 4th grade teacher. Instagram @crumb.finder