She doesn’t know, but I know
how she still has the hots for me—
How she keeps her hair kempt
and smelling of warm gin
and citrus so she’s sure
she intoxicates me
despite the distance she claims
to have between us. And how
she wants me to take her hard
against something, a wall perhaps,
or a closet, or a king-sized bed.
This, I can tell by the way she walks
away— the weight of a love
nurtured in secrecy constantly
shifting on the curve of her waist
but she walks away, anyway.
Allen Samsuya is a writing student at UPMin.