Pass the Light.


Photography by Rebecca Anne Dreiling

there’s a particular

kind of rain

thunderous.

mad rain

pours down

from buckets

then gone

that rain

that rain

reminds me

of fucking

you in Paris

we’d left that

little market

croissants in hands

and had some wine

some chocolate

maybe. olives—

we cooked dinner.

that little apartment

with the massive plant

in the shower

did we fuck

in that shower

or just the bed

rain coming down

I came and came

and you came again

window open

rain came and went

and we were happy.

I thought we were happy.

we’d laughed.

Hard.

about those people

those people

who can’t fathom

lesbian sex

being that satisfying

being that good

without the

act

revolving around a dick

I think,

that night,

I started believing

in my body

as a thing

deserving

of pleasure

deserving

of love

when you strayed

with the body,

and then

with the head

or was it the other

way round?

trying on play-boy,

you’d told the other woman,

“I’d like to know you

in Paris.”

a memory

spat back

in my mouth.

I’d been

a rehearsal.

I’d found

the door in

You’d found

the door out.

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