The taste of cider and picnic baskets.
Your eyes are oak heavy, watch the signs
that we should commune now—
The river is lukewarm and sings
your name when I hold your hand—
We swim against the stream to feel
like—People again—Apollo and
Poseidon slept together
becomes your
excuse of sharing a cabin—you twist your
lies like you twist your
tongue and,
babe, it feels really good—Or at least
that's what I tell myself when—The
other kids start looking at—
Two boys wrapped up in their own woods—
you were my favorite tree and first
kiss—The kind of candy my father
never let me have—I tell you this in
the middle of reciting a constellation
and watch your eyes full moon from
my vow—Our love is a wolf.



Slow dance spinning to each
other's forgotten promises the
love-speak we both don't
know how to translate the arm
touch you'll take with you to
Pasadena and it's sunny there
and boys kiss with lemon
hands and girls are dipped in
cotton candy sunshine and she
is a wave of violet velvet,
different but the hardest ache
to walk away from—home
is her laugh that brings the
city to its knees with how full
it is / (you are the city) / and
she is the light you find
yourself trying to shade a
thousand miles away / high
school is not the space for
home / we are home anyway/
let yourself have this / “we are
home anyway”
/ take her to a
parking garage / say it with
your fingers / “we are home anyway” /
Morse code it with each sway / with each shift of
hips of lips of “I don't know
how to leave you”
/ it all
comes back to this / we are
home anyway.

ALEC VERSE is a queer Indian poet with velvet eyes and soft intentions. They are known best from their poetry on their blog,, where Alec spins stories in complete lowercase for strangers. Their first chapbook, A Modern Muse, came out last August and their next one is in the works. When they are not writing, they are crying, making films, and sacrificing bones to Persephone.