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You’ll have a Boston accent in no time.

I walked myself home from the date, alone.

Past the silhouettes of a couple breaking up
beneath the metal staircase at the construction site.
Backlit by the street-lamps on the square,
Snippets of her exasperation reverberating against the steel. 
Cold air and echoes of argument. 

I’ve done the whole flustered-but-adoring-academic routine before.
Perfected the art.
I could write a thesis on it.

I’m not interested in kissing a smoker.
I’m am somewhat interested in kissing you.
You seem awfully charming after a few cocktails,
And so on. 

And ho! Barkeep!
A salve, good sir, for the anxious polyglot!
Shaking like an over-caffeinated leaflet.



Today Academia informed me that someone in Rome cited me, or cited someone by my name.
My long Italian name which I am, it turns out, mispronouncing. Sure, I could be reasonable and assume it’s just a shared name. But it’s not so unreasonable that at last, one if the many PhD candidates I have nursed through their dissertations, went ahead and gave me some credit where it’s due.

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The hill I will die on is that I am not walking up that fucking hill with you.

Sunday, 12:59 p.m.

I think I can see it, the end.
There exists an illusion we face towards the exit, wherein the tunnel seems longer for a moment,
Stretching out towards the light.
Where we can slow down, hold our breath, and decide.

I say this every Sunday. The I’m done mantra.
But, it’s usually a ritual reserved for the evening, and it’s barely the afternoon.
My patience is creeping in, cutting off your time.

Monday, 6:13 a.m.

You make me pray for awful things, for the will to stop loving.
I won’t let you sap all compassion from me.

What a lazy and romantic poisoning.
You’re a grumpy patch of weeds.

“Have a nice week. Have a nice life, I guess. Be good.”

I will, respectively,
Do precisely that,
Do my absolute best,
And do no such thing.

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