by Bridie Wilkinson

roll over,
onto my chest
stretch, and reach

for the night before
to pull it back –


to me,
to a beat in my heart and a glass of stars in my hand,
plastic straw teetering as
I dance

in a room we have made ours

‘push the bed to the side
where’s the aux I need to hear this one–’

loud and high,
we press against one another, against bodies and against walls, press to claim all this and
maybe if we stretch wide enough, we might catch it all in our palms
all this light

what we can’t spills next door,
where the 11th floor view of the city watches us smoulder,
arms dangling, trying to touch the edges of the place we have chosen
daring it to choose us right back

to see
in the flushed glitter cheeks
and the scrunched bags of second-to-cheapest drinks
prove the clichés correct, we ask,
take our nights and turn them gold

promise us this,
and we will keep on
burning each other

leaving marks that we rediscover

between our sheets

the morning after


Bridie Wilkinson | @bridifer

Co-founder of Dear Damsels, frequently glittered.

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