Ganesha was blue as the afternoon
His breath was warm against my skin
He sighed in his sleep
He pressed into me

His breath was warm against my skin
I loved the feel of him
He pressed into me
Like diving into the sea

I loved the feel of him
Bright and burning
Like diving into the sea
Ganesha was blue as the afternoon

Ganesha told me I was born a snake at the very beginning of the world. I asked him what color I was, a stupid smiling doubt in my voice and the curve of my face. He was quiet after that, and never spoke of it again.

Sometimes Ganesha turns on the light in the middle of the night and sits up from bed and walks out into the kitchen or the backyard and stares out into the night with the quiet. I turn against my pillow and close my eyes tight to keep out the light, but it never helps and I wake up and wait for him to come back to bed. He is listening to something or someone or maybe he is listening to nothing, I think. In the end he finds his way back to bed and turns off the light and I press against the broad blue curve of his back and he falls asleep and I fall asleep.

I’m watching the dark grey-purple of the night against the walls and the ceiling and thinking that I cannot sleep. Ganesha turned in his sleep and the sound of his breath or some long train rumble or cold idle car engine turn into the city’s purr in the dark curl of my head. I sigh and press against him and sleep.

Ganesha waited in the cold for the morning bus, snowflakes catching on his red skin. I watched white breath drop off of his lips. The dark of his elephant’s eyes caught me and I looked away, slipping deeper into my coat to hide my embarrassment. The broad bulk of the bus settled on the edge of the sidewalk and I pressed into the warm inside. Ganesha followed, and took the seat next to mine, the curve of his hip pressing against me.