Far Enough from Your Girlfriend that We Can Kiss in Public, a poem

As miles of city lights stretch out

before us, orange halos that bleach

out the stars, I reach across the passenger seat

to wrap my fingers around yours.

Senseless words seep from my lips

as nerves and excitement swirl

in my stomach and climb the back

of my throat. I keep my foot on the gas

and one hand on the wheel but my

thoughts are not there, they settle

on you instead; the way your

hands heat mine, the way your eyes

(the washed out blue of pitiless waters)

fix on me when I’m focused elsewhere;

how everything stills and brightens—

the details materializing—the moment

I see you and the hollow hole in my chest

opens as soon as you’re gone.

I swallow the lump of tainted hope

crouching in my esophagus.

Your thumb makes small

circles on the back of my hand

and my pulse throbs in response, the boom

of it echoing through my body as the longing

to curl into you wells up in my gut

and I wonder whether my heart

could survive if I am not the one you choose.

@ 2015 by Katrina Galvez, originally published in Humid 8