I have animal breath
pressed against your ear.
You don’t have any blinds on
the windows, waking up is child’s play.
We trade kisses
like baseball cards, proud
of what we give, hoping
to get something better.
Your fingers clam to my bare thighs,
etching your name
like a diary entry,
tracing constellations
of overgrown scars.
Sleep-love-drunk, I forget
that you were you.
Now an extension of my inside
voice, I rise alone
and overlook the sheer size of the sun.
On the train I watch a baby
drop his mittens, mom picks them up
and laughs. I would have touched
the dirty ground for you.
***
Paula Gil-Ordoñez Gomez is a Mexican-Spanish-American writer based in Brooklyn. She works as a narrative strategist at a social impact agency, and as the Social Media & Membership Manager for Brooklyn Poets. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in X-R-A-Y, Variant Lit, HAD, Defunkt Magazine, and Wax Nine, among others. Say hi on Twitter @paulagilordonez and find more of her work at paulagilordonezgomez.com.
***
image: Ashley Beresch. Check out more of her work on Instagram @ashleyberesch
Rejection Letters 