Carry me out of here
with your boots clacking upon the sidewalk
and take me home.
I don’t want to remember myself tomorrow
or the way your smell, like rosewater and baby powder
lulls me to sleep.
Because tomorrow none of this
will mean anything more than a tendril of smoke
you blew when I first met you.
There are cruel bitches, there
are thoughtless bitches, and then there
is you–somewhere between.
I don’t want to remember your tit
in my mouth or the shape of your ass as you walk
out the door. But I know I will.
Unless the booze and the pot
and the pills and the train rides to nowhere
like endless snakes of love.
What was I talking about?
How can a man concentrate with a beautiful woman
walking around naked like that?
Fuck you for fucking me,
waking up, having naked pancake breakfast,
then leaving me alone.
“Bad Romance” will never sound the same
without you standing at the stove, shaking your
bare ass, and singing along.
I didn’t even mind the nasally, musical
theatre quality your voice had as I taught you
harmonies to my songs.
There are foolish men, there
are lovesick men, and then there
is me between your thighs.
You want a friend, you want
a casual, natural easy thing. I want love.
Is there a between?
You say you need to fix yourself
first. Well, fucking is fixing and we’ve both
got the tools right here.
The only real difference
between remembering and forgetting
is you and me.