Holy Crap You’re Gorgeous

The papers have pictures of us but the ones on my phone, insured by your bank account, are precious like heirlooms I’m yet to inherit but the mere mention of them, the idea of an almost-get, is my brain tick before sleep, my morning nerve. And we’re a back-forth before we’re anything solid like a vow is solid and not just something someone says in a moment adjacent to ordering a hamburger.

We leave when sticky menus compromise manicures and I wouldn’t ask because periods don’t add up, of singleness, refinery, of the shoulds and who I am will never matter. In 2050 I’ll be a nice chest your grandmother once fantasised for and about when she was your age, when she was a little bit older than you.

Carol Ferris

I will wait for you but once I get you, I won’t wait. Because how many times do you own what you want? A lot sure, but I mean really really want. And I’ve wanted you since the ten years between us mattered, when you were dating Oscar winners or nominees. I try not to pay too much attention to the accolades of past lives you lived before you acted against me.

The chemistry was a pay check for a day, a wig worth wearing, and the green screen was an easy act, and each time you disappeared, materialised elsewhere, it was a simple pitch, an emotion I found, and the tabloids told, the stories unravel, and I hung like last year’s coat jacket sure that there was some wear for me, other than professional glaze.

I waited, and the merge was timescaled, with me sure that what happens to me won’t happen to her, wasn’t the course run by you both, because I’m a slower burn, later award, significant hair colour, no music career and none waiting. And every person I fucked before was a has-been or up-and-coming indie, never a verger, A-list maker, just 5 years too late.

I grew up on Titanic, wondering if Leo and Kate reenacted their costumeless roles outside, cameras off. I craved co-stars and I craved you and I got you and I won’t be a dot in a sequence obliterated by 2014.

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