Henry

by Abby Cothran

Jairo Alzate

Henry traces the curve of my naked spine   with his index finger.   His hands are    sparkplugs;   electric currents    flow from his fingertips   like he’s made of metal.   I blow smoke    out of the window   that looks out over I-35.   His eyes are golden hour;   I am bathed in amber light   when he looks at me.   It dizzies.   I could have    loved him. This is to say    that I won’t.    We gaze out    on the headlights on the highway    like falling stars in the inky dark.   It won’t be different    this time    but for now   we pretend.

---

Abby Cothran is an MFA candidate at Texas State University. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in publications such as Pink Plastic House and goodbaad. You can find her on twitter and instagram @abbzsz.