I kissed someone else. And any actual feeling which wasn’t a ploy was a willing casualty. And, the family you’re from, you better than anyone understand what compromise is: a daily occurrence, not a prison sentence because even they eventually end, mostly.
Months later, once you’ve fucked my friends and I, yours, when you’d think it too late to try you ask, “What if?” and the boyfriend box with your name on it which I loft-shoved, barely saved from setting light, changes status. Trinkets waning in and out of use.
I know that whether you are or you’re not isn’t text book, nor will it be if my kids get school taught, but that’s decades off. By then, we won’t collect your chin shavings in zip-lock sandwich bags, post them for sale on eBay. Or get your address purely to pick over your bills and your old milk. If you drink milk. Your diet’s a lesser sought fact than it ought to be.
And I’ll replay any almost second of you kissing somebody, analyse the tilt, shake science of it. I’ll search for synonyms for the word ‘enter’ and the best I’ll get is penetration. You were thinking it, but it was blanketed by safe words like ‘vehicle’ and ‘toaster’.
I’ll explain every blurred album shot as multi-grain bread and, “I saw him, close up, and shadows were ornaments, Christmas tree hung on his cheekbones, and I rubbed ’til each wish was Amazon bought, until privacy was a fuckable luxury.” He is.