She was a hot pincher.
Familiar insanity,
for us both.
I met her at
a Charts Generator show
on a roof.
After sex,
our bodies tangled
in blankets.
She got up like Sam Kinison in the night,
all French cursing humpback hair
to pee and pour us water.
She got up again
to feed my growing dreams,
which came and went like Kendra.
The next morning was quiet.
She didn't want to talk about Quebec
or our pasts.
She put on her
cognac-colored boots,
and told me to stay.
I didn't because I knew
we were too old and jaded
to appreciate new love.
I put on my black boots,
and stole one of her scarves.
Souvenirs, we are all souvenirs.