from last night.
She intended to go to the gym,
but showed up here instead.
There's a Coyote Blood sticker
still hanging on
in the drive-thru
of my local Taco Bell.
She snapped a photo of it
while she picked us up dinner.
She posted a story of us
on Instagram.
We watched the Yacht Rock doc
on Max,
didn't talk
while the clothes were on our backs.
She is shaped like a fiddle,
as a leaf.
I am shaped like Pete Davidson
at the moment.
Our poetry isn't written
on purpose,
but in solidarity,
just two lost souls sitting together.
She leaves early,
saying she is going to the gym,
but I know she is going home
to him.