Poem - "Moon in My Monitor"
Moon in My Monitor Wren Greyson Photo by Connor McManus, from Pexels The furthest one holds my hand the tightest in the rings sitting on our fingers, poised for conversation and stuttered responses. The slide of this guitar and varnish replicate him to my skin. This mirror reflects him sometimes, at 3 AM when the lights flicker in the corner of my eyes and I feel his hands wrap around the back of my neck. I know he hugs this way and smells this way, stands like this and pulls gloves off like this, with sharp teeth. The dawn looks like him when the peach pink clouds peel apart. The sun and brash winds sound like him in their rook wing beats. Every bruise feels like him when I can’t remember where they’re from; I like to pretend they’re from him so he’ll kiss each one, smile and apologise, even though we know they’re not his. The keyboard clicks down the hallway sound like him, sharp and clear. Loud laughter cuts out over my speakers, and I wonder what he sounds like in full...
