skyline boulevard
︎︎︎ Sorcova de Corb
︎ Nov 5, 2025
what piques
your interest, you inquired
and found out in the dark, overlooking
the glowing lattice of the bay, 280 thrumming
with trucks and taillights in post-meridian
haze
suspended in a silver box with wheels
between coy stars above
and san jose’s motherboard below.
we toyed with words, we played with
answers
we held forth, fond of our wide-eyed notions
making a sport of sounding smart. windows
down and fall breeze mild, we talked—but
silence sieved all meaning, silence and
watching
how deep the brown pools of your pupils went
butter to spice ratio in your cocoa skin
the arcane tilt of your proud Mayan nose
scrunching in protest at my troglodyte
conjectures
proof of what mattered: no memory of what
we sparred about, and it’s not senescence
because two decades later, a pixel-perfect
feeling of your smile, flowering slowly, remains
incendiary
eve sauntered into night. we would’ve gotten
drunk if we had been of age, but we weren’t
and besides: we were high already, on certainty
on theories of how the world works and (of course)
each other
in my childhood tongue, catifelat means velvet-like
save for few barbs, all your parts were such (eyes
most of all) and so were those late hours; so, too
the streets we drove on, back to your place, for my
first time
and a piece of me never left
and found out in the dark, overlooking
the glowing lattice of the bay, 280 thrumming
with trucks and taillights in post-meridian
haze
suspended in a silver box with wheels
between coy stars above
and san jose’s motherboard below.
we toyed with words, we played with
answers
we held forth, fond of our wide-eyed notions
making a sport of sounding smart. windows
down and fall breeze mild, we talked—but
silence sieved all meaning, silence and
watching
how deep the brown pools of your pupils went
butter to spice ratio in your cocoa skin
the arcane tilt of your proud Mayan nose
scrunching in protest at my troglodyte
conjectures
proof of what mattered: no memory of what
we sparred about, and it’s not senescence
because two decades later, a pixel-perfect
feeling of your smile, flowering slowly, remains
incendiary
eve sauntered into night. we would’ve gotten
drunk if we had been of age, but we weren’t
and besides: we were high already, on certainty
on theories of how the world works and (of course)
each other
in my childhood tongue, catifelat means velvet-like
save for few barbs, all your parts were such (eyes
most of all) and so were those late hours; so, too
the streets we drove on, back to your place, for my
first time
and a piece of me never left
Sorcova de Corb hails from the hinterlands of Eastern Europe and tends to a small garden in the Lone Star State of Texas.