POETRY
Thirst
Arkin Frany I sense you eyeing me from that table, in the domestic dimness of this holein-the-wall restaurant. Your eyes dart over the coffee, filled with carnivorous intent. I play along and send you a smile. You, red plaid and rough on the edges, raise your leg and rest it on your thigh, restless in your chair. Is that distress reflected in your eyes? Or is it something else? Where, in this oasis district of Diliman, can you ever find the fletches of Cupid’s targets? Alone, you cruise the city for transient intimacy. I have seen many men like you here: lonely, lovelorn, lost. And I have found you now, in this state: longing for late night romances. I cross the distance between these tables I ask “Do you want some more water?” which is to say I sense your thirst. You look up and I see a glimpse of petalsoft skin on your neck, the stubble a fresh patch of grass. You consent as I pour the liquid down the glass, perspires. Droplets lick the length of your cup, your mouth slightly agape. Your eyes trail down from my face, sets your sight on my nametag, you make a mental note. When the pitcher’s waterfall cascade stops its riverine melody, I meet your gaze and in that moment I sense a mutual hunger. I retreat to the other patrons in need of tending. But tonight, I will quench your craving as you look at me while you drink from the glass. I see your mouth wrapped around its hardness, your lips wrapped around its mouth, ready for the shape of water. And as if a prayer, your eyes plead from beyond these tables and mouth the shape of my name.
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