I Wish I Was Blue Moon

Not the one in the sky

The one in his long, slender

hand—lanky ringed fingers wrapped

perfectly around the sweaty, amber

bottle.

I watch those inked tendrils

lift the end of expectation

to his evoking lips, he gulps

down a devotion to liquid

courage

liquid

drips down the corner

of his lips, lip of the bottle

The muscular sponge that rests

in his hot

mouth makes its way around

the rim of his bottle, his mouth.

A luscious tuft

of brown parts in the middle

and something else comes out: a sound

I think, but I’m looking at the

half moons

that are filling up the curvature

of his jaw, my god,

he’s smiling, laughing

into the hole

of everything I wish I was.

He takes another drink, this one

longer, and I think I see the icey

yeast smuggle down his

throat

I wish I could know that warmth,

the roughly smooth

texture of his

esophagus against my shivering

skin. Just let slide through the liquid love

on my way to make a home

in his body, snuggle up

to his ribs. Never,

did I think I’d be envious

of a bottle in a bar, in some

hot man’s hand.

Bottle to mouth,

can it be me next?