GOLD ROOM

It looked like Midas had stopped by: curtains, walls, bedsheets, clothing heaps, wadded tissue, skin — all had turned gold.

It was warm, so we went for a walk.

“My thighs hurt.” Mine, too. “The insides, right here.” Mine, the outside.

We stopped for coffee. You ordered a cappuccino, ate the foam with a demitasse spoon. I thought that was gorgeous and told you so.

The bedroom could’ve been melted down, poured into bricks, sold as pure bliss — or some shit like that. Or it could’ve been preserved, admired. But, the sun left the window. It’ll be back.

I bought you sunflowers, told you to keep them as long as possible. You said you would and touched them to your nose. I thought that was gorgeous and told you so.

❊❊❊

We spooned naked. I said you were a sexual alchemist. You thought that was cheesy and told me so.

***

Matthew lives in New York City, where he works as a copy editor for The New York Observer. He studied English literature at Michigan State University, and besides writing, he is a musician and avid runner.