Here’s an apology for standing too fast.
The flourish off the chair was intentional.
You look tired. Sit down. Take over my spot.
Let’s take a moment: I’m a sucker
for brunettes, those who leave
immaculate little lip imprints in the glass.
There’s broken glass in the sink, blood on the pillow,
my fingertips smell of copper, ask me
to move closer.
We’re altruists, you and me, creases
of a smile with so much fill-in-the-blank.
I wonder how you do that?
Nothing else in the room needs to speak.
The sun is winking from the edges of the curtain.
We could make eye contact. If you want to.
Jared Schultz is from the remote village of Emerson, Nebraska. He practices transcendentalism and writes poetry during the daily commute to reach civilization. A practitioner of “yes philosophy,” Jared has a room filled with unorganized notebooks, which have documented past events to write about in the future. He is currently finishing his BA in English at Wayne State College.