My neighbor, Desmond, has this unassuming, jaunty luminosity about him. He was an especial child, all wistful, precise. I gloss over the photos hanging along his shrouded gallery, in my own stannic reflection, posing with Dad and Father Drew, the apotheosis of a crescive, insular clasp that hadn’t evenly welcomed outliers; and how he materialized into such a reticular dream. I wish I had been there then, where he was palpable, to spot the phrenic interchange, ripening plaintive veins, the dahlia’s fluttering respire. Expectant, I once asked him what did he crave, revealing my inclinations, his excursive infirmity, evincing my penchant for his baby face. Clumsily stunned, but obliging, he replied that his most treasured indulgence was ice cream, and God, I could tell that he was sure. He said that he’d tried every flavor under the vanilla graham cracker crumb sun. A great aunt had run a farm stand about sixty miles east some years ago, where she mastered the art of the churn. Her lychee and red currant creations were legendary amongst the locals who still long for the firm, gluey cling. As he spoke of this, his voice moiled too, strapping and jelly, an ace of ambiguity, a dulce de leche splendor, an anagram. It turned me on inordinately.
Sometimes at night, I like to watch him in his backyard through my bedroom window, vulnerable and intent against the cold wallpaper, sucking my gasp, barely breathing, careful not to ruffle the red velvet curtain. On one occasion, he starts an auspicious fire, but it sedately dies out. With each powdered stellar morsel, he encounters them for the first time, exhumes them, that consummate, insuperable boyish grin because no one is looking, that long-range hazelnut glint when there’s nobody there. So unremittingly veiled inside himself, he can give for hours in the fetching chaos, the bones bestrewn about so elegantly ultra, the fireflies’ synchronized dance, pendulous with the heat like a newborn’s toasted almond swaddle. Receptive and incurable behind the pink seething sorbet fringe, a self-assured taste of the tropics heartbreaker through the curdling lavender smoke screen. His revelry endears, though brownie blizzards advance in the peripheral extreme. Black cherry syrup sigh, stomach tumbles to the marrow as I simulate the pistachio kiss, the arrant snow cone scream, the triumphant snickerdoodle strangle. He takes care to brush the dirt off his soles well before passing on into the house.
Whether love or infatuation, he’s too intemperate and uncluttered to tolerate just how obdurately it lurches. It hurts my anima like dark chocolate bark, the zip of sweltry stout, chewy molasses ginger snap apple puffs, spiky cashew char, crystalline buttercup, nectar sorrel vellum. He projects skyward, fades down, elapses, salted taffy thrill, major, flying saucer awesome, high. I hear the mellow purl, raw cookie dough prose, a particulate within the cloying cotton candy, s’mores bar, chunky monkey touch, vapid for his epical sundae, dismantled, in spite of which, he actualizes, what he may, he might, he wends onto, a piece of me, spongy, rum punch, soaked. I guess he has the solace of himself, stony and stoical, consumed by an impulse, a steering, implicit sapience.
I sense him immersing into the Mississippi mud, the aphotic restraint, just before dawn; I can feel the waffling disquiet. It was only an infancy ago that he dimmed into the stringy uncertainty, flush like a beaming slide. He carried his prerogative intractably then, unconcerned with the concealment, the spelt burlap scabrous in his hand, the rope like toothy barb, moose tracks almost fleshing, the deepest sliver within. His hair wavy yellow blonde twirls, lemon gelato in the lamplight, burning wood incense transfusing the air. He climbs how I retain him, through the resinous hue, up the rocky road and abound, to the covert cappuccino chip clearing. He grips the suspended chains, the looming shackle, the caustic solicit, amidst feather-tasseled underbrush, pine creeping so softly, honeysuckle scent savagely wild and splash. The edible fast-forward clouds adrift like marshmallow fluff, nutmeg-dusted lapses of meaning and memory, unredeemed keys, what he had achieved under the moon pies and star crunch. For me, it’s the genial apathy, optimistically crestfallen, circumspect agreeableness; I talk to him before, during, and after sparkling, spectacular sex. I want to be where closer sounds like fusing, discern what is the chroma in his eyes. I want him to inhabit me.
He digs, gluts me full, the billow of surrender blowing like sherbert super squalls. On the rattling swing, he exudes such agave, anise, it makes me caramel crazy. I crawl toward him, dripping in butterscotch. My burial razzle dazzles him, pinnacle of abandon and awe, regress of the unwilling, his back hard pressed against the granular stained glass rainbow sprinkle shards. Exuberant through the sting, he learns to appreciate it. Meek rose blood oil tints sticky lips, stiffening fingertips. I am a gift sewn in black taffeta ribbon, gestating his next premonition praline process. He could use my body.
Always a pleasure, Desmond. After the peppermint winter thaw, the torrid spring will hail gumdrops again. This time I need you to be my orange blossom honey. Don’t withdraw and evanish; remain right here in me. We’ll drown together in that vicious banana split cycle maple drizzle fizzle. Stay far from those canoli cream-covered lovers; occupy the space I am. When the cool whip quells, the butter pecan seeker will unleash tomorrow’s piquant spice. Let’s meet around then. Stay young, staunch, neutral. Remember, standing isn’t soaring. I want to see you grow older, as you come into, the smugness dissipates, wait, you were never smug, after you’ve swallowed your spattered promises. I want to tuck my arms around your paradise waist, stroke your ecstasy neck, and whisper how much I’ve missed you. I want to lift you up from the effete cage, those cinnamon chains, fudge swirl blades; the weaning draft at my shoulder, excavating me, the blinding glazed pumpkin munchkin potentiality, the sinking smile, the melting mirage, the spurting sludge in my throat.
Leyla Guirand
Leyla Guirand reads and writes poetry and fiction. She is currently working on her first poetry collection. Her work has appeared in several journals and is forthcoming in The Literary Fantasy Magazine: Winter 2026. She lives in New York.