IN THE SOFT BLACK MORNING,

it is never enough to want until
someone's ready to gorge himself on it,
drink it out and out of you and wonder
why the glass ends up half-empty.

Think of all the men you've ever slept with.
Think of those days in the garden,
the country music and curlicue clouds,
candle wax the color of apples or gasoline,

think of the halcyon melting into
inoperable time. Think of the park bench
or his fingers, both curled Corinthian-precise.
Think, finally, of asking him

how long he'll stick around,
if he's leaving, if so can you too,
if so can you find the same crossroads
even in different places—

don't think of the body behind the mouth;
just close your eyes and lean in. Out here,
you have to make up your mind quick.
You know city boys don't like to kiss

anything but their teeth.

Lance Cheng is a graduate of Hunter College High School and an informatics and data science student at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. He enjoys writing poetry, code, and literary (over)analysis of video games. Find him on the Internet at withoutanyparticularwonder.substack.com.