Come all ye married, all seasoned and old.
Come all you fearless, you young and too bold.
Come all your summers and winters and falls.
Come all who've no clue and those who know all.

Come along now, let's go.
Yes, you come too.
We've got assignments, and so much to do.

Come all you old haunts and come all you new.
Come all you Christians and heathens and Jews.
Come all your falsehoods and half-lies and truths.

Everyone's waiting, there's space for you.
Scrape up your courage and lather in glue.
Roll around the table, we'll eat what sticks.

Come all you ******* and come all you *****.
Kick off your trappings and get down with this.
Cinnamon scented candles and ****.
Nutmeg caramel melted down to the wick.

A year's worth of longing come to an end.

Can't have a party without ******' ****.

This one is better.
That one is worse.
Constantly measured.
What are they worth?

Gauging the other;
bonds can be severed, tooled and re-worked.

Stats can be padded, embellished and torqued.

Doomed from the start,
or gifted at birth?

Crimes can be trifled, hidden, obscured.

Nothing is certain, but one thing is sure:
Romance is dead, and couples are cursed.

Misspoken broken half-truths and lies;
Classic.
The dump button glows nearby;
ten second delay.
Let 'er rip and kiss it goodbye.

The lifetime spent before it writhing in sheets,
hastily erected schemata with guts knotted up;
misjudged calculations and justifications -
not so easily dumped.

Tripped over admissions and half-felt surprise;
Classic.
The eject button lights up nearby,
hovered over with shaky digits.
Hit it quick and let 'er rip.
No time for goodbyes.

Count the secrets that you keep.
Fingers crossed the roof won't leak.
Took a chance and caught a peak.
Count your blessings and be careful what you seek.
Test the waters.
Talk is cheap.

Stolen dance with mistaken feet.
A lit up button to admit defeat.
Hesitate until it's too late to get away.
Classic.

It's like being writ into some melodramatic hit show,
playing the ******* who just can't commit no matter how far she's willing to go.

Check the thirst pic. I'm only here to give ****.

The epitome of undesirable megalomaniacal hit-it-and-quit-it,
I'm-only-in-it-for-the-**** type ****.

Not interested in a relationship.

When you say things like that, it has no effect.
I can't feel any of that.

We can wine and dine first, if you're a traditionalist.

Just setting the stage for the main event. Give it 'til she gets it so she can tell all her friends: best I've ever had. **** like your poor with demons on your back. After curtain call, skip the bow and exit stage-left.

Omoshiroi
is what I said, after too many seconds of staring,
offered up as a solution to what seemed to be causing such confusion.
This was before I'd learned the word sukebe, which, in hindsight, would have served better.

Nonetheless, she agreed. Omoshiroi, hontoni.
Surely, an interesting turn of events, indeed.

Youthful, virile energy, at this time of day, in this kind of place,
with one such as she, with such a wizened face.

Omoshiroi, she said, after I came;
partly in relief, partly in disbelief.
Iku, iku, iku, she'd said, while we were in bed,
and I still wonder if
it was just flattery.

omoshiroi,
she said, once again, as the elevator took us down,
her cheeks turning red.
hontoni, I agreed,
before walking out into daylight
pondering the limits of vocabulary.

Broke the surface with the provided bucket.
His face followed shortly after.
Proud as a father
of the fortune contained therein.

Gold-plated doubloons and dyed resin jewels
planted there by employees that very morning.

Side by side,
rows and ranks, cow hide, leather flanks.
Hard to the bone.
Tough to penetrate.

Don't go thinking any connection is a thing.
Don't go justifying would-be mistakes.
People are people,
even when reduced to a number.
(Especially when reduced to a number.)

What are the odds of this sum equaling one?
Nevermind.
There is a mission,
and work to be done.