Drying in that small chorus’ Dying, while I lay crying On the tracks Waiting for the train. *** “He Was There” by Elizabeth Endara I can only write about men who touch me when they shouldn’t and when they should and when I don't want them to and when I desperately do and all four of them have been to Prishtina traveling by way of my fingertips transporting like magic when they press their thumbs into my hips First he was there then me and then both of us together crammed into a taxi hugging too tightly I'm always asleep on his shoulder I was asleep when he kissed me I was asleep when he left Second he was there because I begged him to be even though he's a terrible friend but sometimes I wear his hoodie like we're 17 again and we walk down mother Theresa boulevard and I'm pissed and 10 pounds overweight and he thinks it's adorable when I'm angry Third he was there just across the Adriatic sea touching Frida Khalo on my shirt and shaking his blonde hair "I've been to Prishtina" he says and so I let him kiss me and whisper goodbye in Russian
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