Out-of-that same hole, you built the bridge that brought you into my apartment, and closer, enough, to laugh, at my-joke. Enough to make you comfortable, once. And well-built-bridges survive torrential burns. 
[Good pitching usually bests good hitting, bad defense is hard to play-beyond, but, for some reason, sonny keeps-on. Practicing that shot, past-the-arc, [page 8] feet-so-far from the floor.]
I bet on another-blaze, from that boy. Bet his broker--- down at the "bridge-insurance-agency"--- bet, that he bets, too. One big tragedy and The Bad Boy-Blonde bought himself a little capital-l Legitimacy. Or at least a capital 
M-mulligan, ~~~~ _~~. "******, man, can't make another mistake?"

I mumble, again, to myself. But this time, I'm not complicit. I won't be the lubricant, whilst he wears-down his looks, or when he can't use his **** every day, or when he runs out, again--- back, with mean things to say. And now he's ******* disappeared, and you're back on my couch, and we both complain. And you read a poem, and I write a love letter. And---

That part there, that ain't-even projection! Another delusion, maybe. Again. Am I trapped, in [page 9] typing out words that later, I'll trick myself into believing? Or? Truly? I'm more sum, than total, when you tag-along. I'm totally, and tragically, head-over-heels. You'll hear this, here, and have a hard time listening--- "no, listen, I understand all that, and have a position on your counter-punches."

I couldn't, possibly, corrupt my own kingdom by exiling you entirely. Because, yeah, you're so beautiful, but you're also my-best bud. You, fit-flawless, and fearless, and effortlessly, into the hole, left by the jigsaw-piece, lost-years ago. My friends, and ******-when, had it, penultimately, "pieces-no-more," way-back then. 

Yet you're sure you weren't there. "You're sure? You weren't there?" You can be sure, I [page 10] believe you. I'm not under the impression that this is the long-con. I know, I'm a little-less-adorable, when I yawn. Or I cough, or I cry. And if I fawn, all-over you, still, after, I admit. I've really been trying to get-over-this, for a bit. (you could, honestly, be the best-friend that I've never-had-yet.)

And, you could, plainly break-my-heart, again. Apathetic over my annoying requests, for you to, "read my ****!" For it to be this, and you, getting-so-mad. For Adderall-sale to become the staple of our "extra-workular-relationship." For us to lose all contact, like my personalities, currently. For losing the ability to over-explain HBO programs to "This-girl-from-seven-nine-three." For you, this might be easy!

No, sir! Miss, I mean! No, you! I won't let it happen, if you say you won't, too. Put this down, make no mention, if it's made you upset. I've [page 11] already trusted you, once, to forget. And, he did, as well, so we're on the same page. Writing about him: lettered-love, turned toward rage (never, in-your-direction). I'm sure, at one-point, I had promised: no-more interventions. Lashing out was true, but convolutes my intentions. True, also, is the certainty of this-thing, I claim. The third-dream, "with ~~~-~~~~ ~~~," ~~~~~~-~~~~, yeah. You're the name.