did you know i found god at 12?
at least i thought i did.
all i really discovered was *******, like
every other 12 year old.

i wanted you to know that.
i don't know why.

i think i want you to know all of my secrets.
secret number one:
       i'm half drunk.
not actually a secret but the truth.

in a post-apocalyptic world you would be mine,
curled together forever in some oak tree cave
in Connecticut during fall.
i would fall asleep in orange leaves with
your head in my neck.
i could never have that.

come on, Natalie,
there's a heart in there somewhere.
we watched "Moulin Rouge"
and you begged me to sing to you.

now, five years later, i'm sorry.
i know i missed your wedding,
but i just couldn't bring myself to watch
you give yourself to someone else.
you called me during the reception
wanting me to ******* in the church kitchen.
that was the nicest thing you ever did.
now i can hate you.

for all those guys whose girlfriends i took,
however brief.
and for the guys who got the girls after me,
because i'm sure that wasn't pretty.

they were typing papers,
so i'll write them off as not trying hard enough.
i'm probably better than them at a lot of things,
but honestly, that's not important;
it's how you present yourself.
i've got that part down pat.

there are too many to count,
too many names to remember,
it's not worth the trouble.
i'm not sorry anyway.

but i'll bet they are.

and here's what i want from you.

I want you coming to me and running
away as fast as i can.

at the intersection of Denver and Archer,
the purple glow of lights and the steam
billowing from manhole covers
reminds me of you.

the striped sheets I'm in now
once wrapped you up.
while you held yourself up on my chest and stained wood,
my eyes danced over your skin
making the journey new again.
hot coffee at 10 am leaves me running in place--
never getting anywhere.

i loved you in the rain,
by the time the weather cleared,
i had forgotten you.
that's not kind,
but look at my state, darling.
the left winger's and right winger's
want my head.
i'd clip all the same,
but they'd fall all around me.
pity.

i'm at the age where
i think everything i do is so **** creative
and the things i think and say are so insightful.
but they are.
mostly.
on occasion.

sometimes.

"You're looking fit," she said, the words sliding off her tongue.

"Thanks. So are you."

It was a cold walk up to the oak door
and my nose was red from the wind.
Sun Meadow. That was her neighborhood.
A little optimistic for my taste.
Five, maybe six, people I graduated with lived on her street.

"Where are your parents?"

"Cayman Islands. They usually go somewhere tropical
after the holidays. I would've gone, but work... you know."

"Yup. No time for fun."

"You wanna smoke hookah?"

"Sure. What flavor?"

"Don't be silly; house mix, always."

She loved the "house mix."
It was a slightly overbearing concoction
of apple, banana, and melon flavored tobacco.
I ran my hand through my hair to dissolve the snow.
Her mom was an interior decorator, so I was surrounded
by obscure, obnoxious, and expensive trinkets from
God knows where.
I sat on a bar stool and watched her make the bowl.
Her moves had gone from graceful to inept
just as she had gone from goddess to **** in my mind.
She set the hookah on the bar and inhaled.
Then it was my turn.
It went on like that for five minutes or so
as she looked me up and down.
Every once in a while she would lick her lips
or lean forward to expose even just a centimeter more of her *******.

"So who's the new ****?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," she spat.

"My left or my right, depending on how many notes
I've taken that day."

"Ha ha, very funny. How long's that been the case?"

"A week or two. Maybe three," I quip.

"Restless yet?"

"That's all I've ever been."

Ashley was never tactful.
She showed her hand too fast, but she
bet so little it made no difference.
She was also never virginal.
People often romanticize their first time with stories
of secret escapes or innocent awkwardness.
I was never like that and Ashley appreciated the monstrous
control and possessiveness I wrapped around my *****.
I took what I wanted, she told me.
She liked that, I guess.

She knew a couople girls I had been with--
they'd shared their "stories" with her.
Stories of how I'd ripped the innocence from them,
the thrill,
the wall slamming,
screaming,
cursing,
the painful entrance,
strength,
weakness,
and finally
the out-of-breath finish
where I left them feeling like rag dolls.
Or so I'm told.
She liked that.
Craved it, even.

So, I let her have it.