"After Sex With A Man Who Lives In Georgia"
Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way
I choose whether to miss you. I won’t ask
if you love me, but answer anyway. You drove back
to Georgia without me, and sometimes
I hate you, but mostly I think
of cracked pepper and cinnamon lingering
on my hands even after a year.
Remember your hands cupped
me once. I watched you stand naked beside a bay window
in a pink hotel room before everything woke.
You did not see, and I thought how beautiful
how barely there
"Before You Leave For Colorado"
Lie next to me in half-dreams while I whisper
about that time I kissed a boy I did not like
on the band bus, and I’ll listen to your stories,
spilt coffee and girlfriends who were too angry,
or girlfriends who were actually wonderful,
the shiny blonde ones you sometimes miss.
I want the weight of your arm across my belly,
and I want to braid our legs together, but
let’s not fuck.
We should just curl here, fall with the hail
on the sides of the house, inhale the milky almost
sleep. I’ll press my fingers to your birthmark, a little
red Belize on your neck, and you can hold my wrist.
I don’t remember the last time we did this.
Regan Gudal is a student, a poet, and an aspiring wearer of high heels. Her work is published in The Red Mud Review, and she is currently attempting to follow that canonical advice to write every day.