Just Forever

            Love is not needing.

Two things can be pulled
so thin they merge.

My recent thoughts are filled
with pressure, as I tweeze you

and I apart. The past: It was winter
but that doesn’t matter, we were

in San Francisco and the air teased
its way onto the skin of my thigh

as we stalked streets after
dinner. First date, I had torn

the fly straight off my jeans.
You laughed. That night,

like many after, I watched every
one of your gilt freckles caper

in mute light. I knew you
were the end of one path,

the bend in another. Implicit,
seamless. Then, you, a sealed letter,

fell asleep. I lie cold,
your tone hissing as I wait.

You unfastened me.
I unzipped you.

Chemicals are great
at changing chemicals.

You were good and I was me
then. Now: I bloom, as you journey.

A dress unsewn, I know,
it has mellowed. Orange

glint in black milieu, a pushbike
in the night. The world is a system

of streetlights and irises
looming savage above us.

J. B. Fredkin received his BA from Santa Clara University and his MFA from The New School in New York City. He’s been published in Pif Magazine, Atticus Review, Santa Clara Review, The Best American Poetry blog, and Belleville Park Pages. He currently live in San Francisco.

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