I tell her about my shirt thing:
wearing every t-shirt I own –
from dresser drawer to Chelsea storage –
consecutively, and writing about each
like Murakami, but less funny.
she laughs and we are off to the races,
literally, we go bet on horses,
and lose but laugh together; she drinks, I do not,
but we have a blast, and end the day
in her rose-colored bed sheets
where she greets my skin with her skin.
I invite her to LA with me,
as if it's prom and I am a corsage short,
and she agrees to go and be my groupie,
but I'd rather be hers, writing her
rose-colored poems in hotel rooms
while she is great and I am gaunt.
this is the magical moment in which
I hope we never see each other again –
one of us (or both of us) dies –
thus we are never able to let each other down,
break each others rose-colored hearts
in stupid ways like arguing about doing the dishes.
love is stupid because it lasts forever
no matter what we tell ourselves,
and if I see this rose-colored human
at a future party drinking rosé
it will be awkward because of naked
emotions and memories made while vulnerable.
who knows, LA is in May,
and we may be keen or we may be
just maybe and amicable,
but for now we dance down Greenpoint streets,
to get breakfast and pretend
that now is the only moment that matters (which is true).