dream in which harry styles meets me at our spot along route 395 just before sunrise
by Dia Roth
he climbs off his motorcycle, fluffs his ruffles, and asks if i like his silk chemise. it’s new, he says, and does a spin to show off. i tell him i love it, and even in the near-dark i know i’m not lying; i can feel the kleptomania rise in my chest, but resist the urge to rip the shirt from his back and run. it would put a damper on our friendship and my lungs wouldn't take me far anyway, gasping at this thin high desert air. but really, the shirt means nothing to me on its own. i want to steal his chemise, yes, but not off his back. no, i want his back too, broad and rippling. i want to wear him like a lacy undergarment, leave the blouse unbuttoned so my nipples catch the wind and silks swirl out behind. harry catches me stealing glances at him as we trudge single file along the short boardwalk. when we arrive at the hotspring he faces me, gets close, asks what’s wrong, and i can tell from the way he inhales the droplets floating from my lips that he’s trying to understand, so i reveal to him the depth of my want: the silk, his skin, my nipples, but also the urge for theft. and he just smiles at me. generous boy, good boy, he unzips himself from neck to navel, shrugs out of skin and chemise. i unzip myself too. we fold our skins, set them neatly on a flat rock and lower our undone bodies into the steaming mineral wash. all you had to do was ask, he whispers as the sky turns pink, and oh how i wish he were right.
Dia Roth (they/them) is a poet living and working in Seattle. Their poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Ghost City Review, Verse of April, DEAR Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. Dia wishes they could spend all their time submerged in bodies of water, rivers and oceans in particular. Unfortunately, they haven’t yet managed to grow gills. You can follow them on Twitter and Instagram @diaroth____.