cupid cuts themself for psyche,
at a cocktail bar,
ur nails and ur finale orange hair death,
ultramarining my fallow,
to discover the dolphin arch of ur neck,
somewhere google maps doesn’t know,
or how u forgot ur mom’s face,
or the flat soda lost in my drink,
or the name of a star hidden by something in me.
three strikes bring us blue eclipses caressing ceiling light wet,
to longing blue merengue hovering foggy from the club above us,
a descending princess,
like both of us look down while we graze le gardien’s back on twinkled stairs,
like a girl becomes an actress,
who knows the dungeon grip,
if she edges herself long enough before the shot,
dripping for literally any of the 8 leathery loveseat cubicles,
tropic-burned travel agency gaze of the 2000s,
and the promise of sweet flavored fuck fantasy,
or the tangerine glow of the change machine coin slot,
showering in forgotten LCDs.
ancient eros begetted,
a witness to contrapposto,
odalisque,
eromenos,
had it all,
floor to ceiling,
but not an anonymous “how are u” text,
ur nipples hard through a leather vest,
ghost power,
that there’s something to being close to a stranger,
waiting it to be u,
the lights off,
ur valley of a back,
ur tears a gift in my throat,
mirroring whatever fills the breath of the guy behind cubicle door #6,
with the wish of the belt buckle,
or for mommy’s distorted love.
i love u to know i will bleach my hair tonight,
little angel,
i’m wearing the glossed up cupidess,
and i’ll never send that voice memo,
“let’s start over”,
bailamos let the rhythm take u over bailamos,
or whatever ho po-wing said.
n.k. gem (they/he) is an emerging poet exploring personal experience through lenses of mysticism, queerness, the body, and cultural inheritances. their work investigates these themes and their mythos against the transformative power of eroticism and fantasy building. they currently live in philadelphia, pa.. INSTA
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