The incessant crinkling of a mostly empty
bag of potato chips. Rummaging through
luggage. These are noises I hear out in the
hallway. From here in the bedroom at
three in the afternoon. Reading the
biggest book in forever, The MIT Years.
Today I sit for a two-year evaluation.
My lover always has the higher score.
“We are in two different places,” I say,
and try to paint a picture of a map with
two figures: one scrappy with youth
and unsettled (blurry, or vibrating);
the other, plump yet vigilant, knowing
where he’s going (his hipster boots
shackled to the floor with a disco
ball overhead, symbolizing a slight
dizziness). One of us has been
watching a nephew grow up
on Facebook, amazed at how
childhood becomes awkward
youth. The other keeps at
least one foot on a ladder,
he’s heading up to the roof
now. Hanging on to a star.
