I remember you.
You asked me for a kiss.
There was an overhead street lamp spraying us with yellow light.
The parking lot was empty.
You were smiling as if you'd just found out Santa Claus was real.
I chalked it up to you having been suddenly stricken with blindness.
Because there you were. Blonde hair like woven sunlight. White blouse sewn onto you. As if the universe had just made something so pretty it had to show it to someone.
Asking me for a kiss.

I've buried a body, fingered Jess, and cooked a thanksgiving turkey.
I snorted a line, took a hit, and things are still a bit murky.

I've read the Bible, a little of Kant, and I've stared into the abyss.
Followed the moon all the way home, and something's still amiss.

I've listened to Bach while making her come as she looked into my eyes. And still I sit here wondering about unnecessary lies.

I thought by now there'd be a pattern, that in some way it'd all make sense.
That if I went ahead and experienced things, I wouldn't care about the tense.

So I jumped off a bridge, have had a few drinks, rescued a young opossum.
And I've had a few nice thoughts about that **** Emmy Rossum.

Maybe I've seen and done the things and people I was meant to be.
Though I know it never was or ever will be me.

I never stopped to think. I never needed to.

I can come over. I can tell you jokes, stories, or just listen. We can watch a movie, eat dip, and talk about our day. Or sit around the fire and give each other advice.

You can go ahead and tell me how you feel about anything at any given moment. We can relate to each other on multiple levels. One of us might even feel a connection to the other.
It won't be me.

I'm playing a role. Not because I don't care. I do. Because I know it's what you need from me in that moment.

I did things so that I could, one day, say I did them.
Now that they're done. I don't want to talk about it.