Swallows swoop, signalling summer. This season, a time-worn tale: meet boy of my dreams, yearn, have heart broken.
In the buzzing tall grass, arm fuzz almost touching, we talk Yeats, orchestra, Manchester City. I’m dazed with desire: my hand clumsy on his thigh as I dive in for the kiss.
Adam is on his feet. “Jesus, Nick! You’re queer?” His face opens as he looks down on me: eyes confused, expansive; not hard. Hope flickers. But he walks, and my dreams fly away.
Like commas on blank lines, swallows alight on long wires. If my heart would only leave with them.