Things you won’t wish for like
Sleeping with men your mother did
Or friends’ exes
And incurable illnesses
And sex tapes
And restarts with Dan and Matt and Joe
Week 3 out of 5 or 4 out of 10
At which the dip is a death mask making
And any unclean paid for hotel room
Or Jury’s Inn
Eleventh choice at best
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.
Sometimes your person is dating the wrong person. Or maybe you are together but you break up because state lines make the distance feel further and ferries are added expense especially when you suffer sea sickness and ancestors of yours got lost in water, and we’re not talking one or two but three or four on the family tree floating or sunk.
When someone’s locked in, got a ring, made a commitment, you can’t always persuade them of the reasons it should be you instead, so succumb to coercing, make a list of grand gestures and try them on friends first to check you’ve got the scale right: we want romantic comedy crazy, music videos set entirely in well lit rain. And if your list fails and she’s still marrying Chad, Michael, Kerry, remember people change their minds at the alter, there’s divorce now. If you wait years you can have her when he’s dead.