Connor Irwin

Connor Irwin

by Chris Hawkins. This poem appears in Boshemia Magazine: BODIES.

Your earrings were still on my desk,

one week and half after you plucked

each from either lobe and left them

to glimmer in the energy—

safe, inefficient glow which lit

that late-evening, shifting into

early-morning, post-viewing of

a musical you’d somehow not

seen before I illegally

streamed the adaptation online.


Though the next first, for us both, that

followed was a tender, clumsy,

significant experience,

what lingered with me, one week and

half on, was that so simple, so

underrated sensation of

skin simply touching skin as we

mutually, vulnerably

held each other, your unadorned

ear resting pressed on my chest.


Through that night and morning delight,

those lavender stones leant gently

beside my half-drunk water and

silenced phone, so at-home that

reapplying them slipped your mind

when you’d mustered enough will to

leave, and they laid there, content, till,

one week and half later, I popped

them into my coat’s front pocket,

rather sorry to see them go.