He sat on the floor of the living room
eating pizza crust and dreaming
again of the days falling slowly
behind him, dripping as sweat does
on cold Sunday mornings
And between his mother’s rom-coms,
and arguing with his brother over
who would get to use the tv next,
he would lay on the floor
and count the crooks in the ceiling
the way he would count stars
He would tap the air,
the outline of imaginary sparks
waiting for something,
something he could not understand
just yet.
He asked his brother how girls taste,
and he said it depended what lipgloss they’re wearing,
and Peter couldn’t help but wonder
for years
how he could love the flavor of someone else’s lips
if he didn’t even know how his own must taste
by Maura Lee Bee, from Peter & The Concrete Jungle
