Dreams of Lives that Never Happened #1

In my mind, we are in a too small apartment.
It is a hot summer day. The kind that makes children wilt and ice cream melt before it can be tasted.

I am smoking cigarettes and writing poetry. You are strumming a guitar in a way that is poetry.

Somewhere, far below, the sounds of life drift in through the open window.
Cars honk, people yell, and a broken fan turns lazily.

We share cigarettes and talk about Frank O’Hara as Chet Baker plays on an old vinyl.

Your left shoulder is exposed as your silk robe hangs off your shoulder and I think about how sometimes, not knowing is better.

You muddle your way through a jazz progression and I drum in time on the rim of mason jars.

We talk and it is poetry.
We philosophize about the universe and the cosmos and the way our skin sticks together
on days like this, when it is too hot
but everything moves slow.

The sun never quite dips below three o’clock and we’re at that point where we probably should stop drinking whisky,
but what else is there to do but love the day and love you?

Ian Brunner is a fiction writer and poet from Buffalo, New York who is currently residing in Atlanta, Georgia. His work has been featured in eight journals and zines. He is the author of the chapbook, Ruminations (CWP 2017).