I’m supposed to go away with you tomorrow.
I was supposed to be done with you, well before yesterday.
All I do when I’m with you is orgasm relentlessly and ask myself,
“What am I doing?”
“What am I fucking doing?!”
You make me feel worthless.
You make me feel so good.
You trace your thumbs along my bones,
You draw me so precisely.
Let me bask in the illusion of being known.
You don’t want to get to know me, really.
I just want to dislike you enough to remind myself not to want you.
I’m just here for the ride out of town.
I’m just here to get you out of my system.
I’m just here for the starlight.
I’m just here for a few more weeks,
Might as well enjoy it.
And were we to take an inventory of the friendship,
What would we find?
A few dozen skipped rocks.
A generous handful of sunsets.
A reckless dearth of caffeine.
Some spilled ink.
A couple wishes each, made during the meteor shower (What did you wish for?).
Enough peach pits for a cyanide poisoning.
A multitude of small deaths, some of them faked.
And perhaps, and most importantly,
Two people who are slightly happier than they were a few weeks ago.
The spoils of
I feel comfortable with you.
An affection relatively devoid of emotion, and certified gluten-free.
You taught me to love dirt again. To get my hands filthy.
It’s under my fingernails,
you’re under my skin.
I should learn to garden,
to cultivate something I can actually grow
and have a say in.
Something to nourish my body beyond pleasure.
I could grow herbs.
Who am I kidding, I can’t grow roses.
I can’t keep a cactus alive.
Perhaps, this week, I will buy myself some flowers.
That’s a start.