Nathaniel T. Hughes

One layover away from home, and ten days ends up being too short. Too short to sustain embraces that should have lasted longer than heat stroking fingers coming undone; too short to escape sleepy jitters of the night; too short to digest fibers of angled relations jetting back up in the harbor of our hardening hearts; and too short to lie to myself, in mummers convincing me to stay with afternoon flogged with green and swollen air. I wanted friends to be an eyelash in the blink of our universe and hoped microbrews would, one at time, bend finite notions back to a rooted place in these stomping grounds. But now I have text messages coming in, and I'm not even back yet; I have unstable emotions about where I should be, roots of maples yanking me back with each sway of the swing. It's the politics of longing in the steady cradle of waiting and little babies we collectively birthed years ago are now growing up and although we're worlds apart, It all gives me something to look f

The lens of her eyes reflects off of mine; as she lets me put it deep inside her, it's vibrations, heavy breathing that moans: This goodbye is going to be a lot harder than we had thought it would be, so take me from behind, the side, on top, however ever else we can, just so we don't forget how it felt, when mornings harboring late night eyes kept us inside talking in little voices, hiding from what we knew we must face.