It’s like when you ran over my cat last December and I said it was okay but it really wasn’t and you tighten your grip on my arm and I don’t care anymore because, fuck, it was just a cat right?
Or when we went bowling and I pulled sevens and nines all night and you bowled strike after strike after golden strike and I swear you were immaculate and floating when you jumped victorious and I sat by the score sheet and all the powers of man and nature and beast and god were barely able to keep my head up and my eyes focused on the ocular feast, the glory of you.
And when we were walking home after the movies and the wind blew acerbic and jealous and stricken blind, groping to finger flesh within our coats and scarves and boots like the denizens of Sodom and Gomorrah and we are as Lot’s daughters left like the lamb for the spiritual slaughter but the angels come in the form of your father in the family minivan offering us a ride and I desperately want to say yes but you say we’re fine so he drives away and I watch him leave and turn to salt but you just grab at my gray granulated hands and drag me along behind you.
Or when we got our finals back from that author seminar you know I tried so hard in and you got an A- and I got a D and my head hit the desk like a hollow bone stamp and you leveled your eyes with mine and told me it just stands for “Damn, you’re cute” and we laced our fingers like corsets or thigh-high boots or nineteenth century shirt sleeves and everything was comfortable and clean until you hit my fucking cat and this is all out of order but I think I just wanted to say I would be nothing if not for you so thanks I guess.