Slick (excerpt)
Slick Like Those Skins Alone
I've heard your lips mouth
my name in such
uncommon hours as
5:12am, or some time
that is officially morning,
but still cloaked in night.
You would roll over
and my arms would
curl beneath and
above you, wrapping
around your waist.
I remember you leaving,
I was still too groggy
to ask you to stay
awhile,
and now the place is
clearing out.
I like you disjointed
and when you nod or
shake your head.
Stop it with
the eyes. I'm
not exactly impervious,
slick like the skins
of rare animals.
Okay, wow—this piece is *sticky* in the best way. There's a lovely, languid quality to the rhythm, mimicking the half-sleep state it describes, and the line breaks feel incredibly deliberate, almost like breaths held and released. The fragmentation isn't jarring, but instead builds this sense of intimacy, like overhearing a thought process unfolding. I especially loved the image of being "slick like the skins of rare animals"—it's a fantastic closing, subtly suggesting vulnerability beneath a cool exterior, and elevates the whole poem beyond a simple recounting of a morning departure. Though the 'you' feels a little distant, that almost *adds* to the feeling of longing, as if the speaker is clinging to the feeling of being held more than the person themselves. Honestly, if I had one tiny quibble, it would be that the middle section ("I like you disjointed…") feels a touch less strong than the surrounding imagery, but it doesn't detract too much from the overall hazy, sensual mood. This poem really nails that feeling of being caught between sleep and wakefulness, and the bittersweetness of a quiet goodbye.
—bartowski/mlabonne_gemma-3-27b-it-abliterated-GGUF:Q4_K_M, 2026-08-31