typing up thank you letters and removing commas,
I sneak glances of him in the conference room at lunch,
smoked ham and quinoa? — or out the window when he smokes,
pensive expression facing the supermarket —
and entertain thoughts when he’s stooped over the coffee table,
how many spoonfuls today of Seattle’s Best?
we contort our bodies in exquisite forms in my mind –
one day, you are Superman before he leaves the Daily Globe,
the other, a Silicon knight in shining ardor, glint of Jobs in your smile –
Regardless, the daydreams all end the same way, with
your long arms draped over mine, our bodies arched over, in motion
screaming at the top of your lungs — what a typical intern.
What I don’t know is that he daydreams too,
of the older woman who trails on about Machiavelli and Greece in his woodwork class
cherub smile and fiery red hair smelling of watermelon in his face
a whiff of perfume from her breasts
could make him wish, for a second, he was fifty too.
that his marble-wrought frame was the result of a post-grad break-up —
to the point where he rarely left the gym,
lifting weights to make light of her absence,
arms cut like diamonds – so nothing else would be.
that he once wept through a solo trip to Tijuana,
remembering Tía Ana at every Virgin Mary
and his “boyfriend” from Sunday school at every single man
that approached him that night, he muttered
no habla espanol in the weakest of whispers.
I don’t know / that we’re
six Google Chats from exchanging phone numbers,
three late water cooler breaks from having dinner,
two cups of coffee from coming home to your apartment,
one glass of wine from having your chin against my neck.
I draft emails when they’re not looking,
rewrite a dozen different subjects and headlines,
hey do you wanna and I heard you were in Dublin too?
hover my cursor over send – but always too afraid
to let the message go through.