And I’d like to think we bonded.

I didn’t think I’d be sad when I said,

“This isn’t going to work.”

But Frank Sinatra a few days later said otherwise.

Here’s to the 200 miles that put our hearts 2 years underground.

• Us: Isn't it beautiful?
• Them: What is?
• Us: Oh, I don't know. Everything.

IT’S GOING TO BE PRETTY AND SHIT.

is the most precious darling because she likes my shitty poetry.

Thank you.

A lion

out of place

in a temperate forest. Lined aisles of USDA Organics are the bars of your cage, the zoo most uncomfortable hypocrisy.

Your feet fall heavy-heeled and deliberate against linoleum. Your speech monotonous.

Baritone. A low rumble.

But from what I see, you ain’t got much of a mane to me.

By God, you even fuck like a lion.

Although hidden from behind, your hands and huffs

make aware my throat and thighs.

How guttural.

Prosaic.

I’ve never heard, “you’re beautiful” sound so cubical.

A contradictory figure of authority who openly states its illegitimacy through worn silk-screened short sleeves.

How quaint.

And your fondness of minimalist literature is an excuse for your inability to communicate.

And when you do,

“We’re on a journey,” you begin, and your tail twitches irritably in the position I’ve placed you.

Pinned.

Cornered you between the rusted chassis and ripped leather upholstery.

“This is silly,” you growl. Squinting. Dodging eyes.

Yet still hesitant to answer.

Uncomfortable. Stifling.

The atmosphere screams,

“INCONSEQUENTIAL.”

Insignificant and childish,

yet we are the most capable of humility.

Oh, how proud you are.

Beautiful, in it’s own right. A post-modern Gatsby tale, with more substance and more heartache. Kudos on the prose. Hugs for the woes.

Possibly the most precious comment I’ve had on my poetry since I was in middle school.

No need to feel down, though, it was a wonderful night that I will remember fondly.

• Me: In an attempt to make up for being a doof, would you be interested in dinner tonight?
• Cute Coworker: Being a doof? hhahha, you weren't at all. But I would love to do dinner. Where would you like to go?
• Me: I honestly haven't thought since I didn't think I'd get this far.

I thought I ought let you know what I saw through liquored eyes,

tinted red with maraschino cherry and rejected sleep.

I saw boys in felted Stetsons and button-ups the color of dark, dusted tires. Half-assed 50s gave us an excuse to drink.

and never have I ever spun so fast in my life.

Enamored with my drunken sight, borrowed photos only make nostalgia a lesser struggle.

And there.

Can you see it? In the corner.

There, in the deepest part of Flagstaff’s trust fund money. Somewhere between the six figures and the million-dollar mansions they called, “cabins.”

Among the Ponderosa pines and man-made waters, there was an extended moment of endearment.

On a $60,000 porch covered in cigarette butts.

Never had I ever loved so unconditionally in my life.

You entertained my infantile inquiries; a father, knowing better, yet whole-heartily subsiding for the sake of their own seed.

I think you loved me for my happenstance. I think I loved you for your lack of judgment.

Oh!

And oh, how your voice played Fiddler on the Roof!

“If I were a rich man, ya ha deedle deedle deedle dum da da deedle dum!”

None could imagine a Tevye so handsome.

“Come down from there,” you cooed. Like Missus calling down her kitty cat, a worry caught in your throat, “You’ll fall!”

“I will not!”

The bottle of vodka was singing, lying through my crooked teeth, covering up any evidence that I was tumbling in complete miscommunication, falling more and more in love with a boy who, weekly, stacks apples for eight hours.

And those very same hands went about their way, past my thorny mane of filthy retail blonde and found my shoulder a charming perch.

Not a soul could say what you were thinking as we sat together and recited to other youthful, drunken gamblers,

“Always assume the dealer has ten.”

Here.

There you are again.

Head in lap, like a wearied dog. Fur matted and unkempt without care. Your eyes fluttered open and closed like the wagging tail of a puppy’s dream-driven happiness.

Oh darlin’. Dumplin’. Dearest boy.

Why’ya gotta pull on my gin-brittle heart strings, sugah?

Oily locks, thin and brown, wove between my callouses so effortlessly.

With each ruffle and chuckle, the noise dwindled.

The crowd trickled down to a few haggard-eyed boys unsuccessful in their chase.

The cheetah stands, panting. The drink too much for its lungs.

The gazelle outruns its jaws, out past the great wooden door and into the still air.

4:00 A.M.

Weliecrampeduponaforeignleathercouch.

Pathetic woven cotton covers our clothed mess of limbs, muffling our inconsequential whispers.

A lone cheetah tumbles down the stairs, moaning. The tequila evaporates off its exposed tongue.

“Y’know, it sounds as though the next couch is open.”

“No. I think I’ll stay.”

And you stayed.

Yet slowly.

Slowly.

So slowly.

I awoke.

Thin, bare arms wrapped about me.

But how’d I forget about the boy in the Stetson?