Photo Credit: Canva

Photo Credit: Canva

There is a girl in my physics class

With a rainbow wristband

From the LGBT center.

And I shall confess,

It’s hard to listen to the theory of gravity

(Which has no physical evidence of existence

Except that it doesn’t ever not exist)

As my own very gay (brown) eyes

Gravitate towards hers, and more so,

Her rainbow wristband,

Concrete evidence.

What if I passed a note

And, more so,

What if it was actually smooth?

Maybe she’ll tell me on the seven hour drive

Back to my house in New York

Isn’t too bad with the unfocused glimmer

Of Christmas lights

As my fingers trace the roads of her palm

A map leading me to familiarity:

This Must Be The Place.

The comfortable quiet hum of the car

Has replaced my longing

In the quiet of the night

That I’ve shared a bed with

A test to see how hopeful you are

(Or how many times you’ve broken):

Do you easily excite over

Something new, something more,

Something better,

Or wish to go back to the beginning?

(And if the answer to both

Is the same human

You are utterly, indefinitely, breathlessly,


And in the morning,

Sunday mornings are reserved

For all that actually makes one happy

To exist and exist amongst,

No room for sloppy, drunk Fridays

Or sleepy-coffee Mondays,

I’ll think of you.

Her is just a three letter word

Until “who do you love more?”

Precedes it

All past pain re-invited

Like an old acquaintance

Who knows more about you

Than you remembered of their existence

I’ll wonder

If for a physics morning

What would’ve happened

If she forgot that rainbow wristband.

All sleepy, imagined situations considered,

On the last day

Of the final exam

As blurry equations and simple numbers

Twisted and turned

Amidst the never-ending sea

Of caffeine keeping my brain

Hopefully afloat

I’d never been more excited

For someone to ask for a pencil.