by Sergey Bielecki
This bus reeks of weed and that’s not why my head is on the windowsill, it’s for North Hampton covers me with grey skies on my return from a summer of nothing. Rain drizzles like it did when you left for Rio. You said, “I’ll call you and you’ll visit soon, I promise”. I doubt you remember last year when a man asked me for a dollar I gave him a cigarette and a lighter. No less crass, and less of a man, now I give him the five that I planned to use on a mocha. The last time you saw me I was with a new love and while you looked at me with grey sky eyes painted in disgust as you walked across the stage, the first time you saw me it was on stage kicking and punching. It could be death but across from you is my lover, this college, it stinks like strikes that smoked from corner to corner, stinks like the truth that should have been a lie, but now here in Ana Bandaire where I stink of a morning before a storm while you watch a man picking six strings, my lover across the Baltic will watch my hand bump on a bus, on a plane, on her shoulder while I whisper these lies that stink.
Sergey Bielecki is a queer writer from Russia with 11 publications across 6 different magazines from poetry to microfiction. He also created and edits Polymnia magazine . He's currently interning for the Porter Phelps Museum and serves as a editorial intern for the North Hampton Book Fair.
