I might be clad in black leather
windswept to a heavy metal soundtrack.
I might offer you my helmet
and the backseat of my motorcycle.
I might tell you to hold on.
Maybe I’d take the curves a little fast just
to feel your thighs tighten around my hips.
I might run a hand through your hair
tilt your head to expose the soft pale
where your shoulder meets your neck.
I might trace your clavicle
with a cool lime wedge
follow it with a shot
and lick the salt from your skin.
We might be good in bars together.
I might lean a hip against the pool table,
watch you perch on a stool
circling the lip of your glass
with the tip of a casual finger.
I might weave a cue through my knuckles
see you watching me
and line up my shot.
Sawyer Lovett is a writer who lives in Philadelphia with his wife, a dog and a hedgehog. He’s a part-time bookseller and a full time MFA student who occasionally reviews books for Kirkus and Lambda Lit. He is the author of two books and his work has appeared in Apiary, Impossible Archetype, and Cleaver.