Henry lives in Los Angeles. He writes poems sometimes.
With your head firmly on my shoulder, I reach— stiff as an announcer’s smile —for a full glass of Santa Monica red. My eyes locked on the T.V., I ask what music you like. Your dimples dig into peach-fuzzed cheeks. “I’m into Love Songs on the KOST,” you grin. Now, I’m swaddled in the sheets your mom bought you in high school. With a ruler’s length between us, my feet protruding off the bed, I investigate your wall. I imagine you, arranging maps and keepsakes from Brown's cross country meets. Rolling up scotch tape, careful not to leave a mark.