I don’t choose you, wouldn’t if you had cash, keys, evidence against me or in my favour. Can’t learn French when you’re looking. Your eyes hog vowels and your lips are sideways macaroons and I’ve kissed your best friends, not just one of them. I’ve never imagined your breasts and don’t think I want to although most things are within the possibility realms if you give time, take time, get bored. I’ve spent hours in locked rooms, holding cells, holed up in hotels, motels, sheds.
I remember one of your baby teeth fell out in Mrs. Hilton’s class and you bled on to your shirt collar and I watched the colour soaking wondering what happened to blood that left the body. I still don’t have an answer.
You apologise for assumptions you made when we weren’t friends, before your soft voiced, shoulder brushing persona starting playing like movie scores, Damien Rice on the radio in 2003, 4, once every hour.
I won’t read books you bring. I’ve been in love with Em since I was seven and I won’t change, won’t change, even if you offer me sex or kissing, sex and kissing, tongue. Even if you buy cake.