Fourth Boyfriend, Five Times

We don’t get it right, despite tries, texts to ask, “Are you up?” then no follow-through.

Every possibility I could have had, that there was, I picture. Fruit basket them. And decide which I’d have now if I skinned them. Peeled.

Jack reappears five times in four years, somewhat nonchalantly. He doesn’t feel it but knows that I did and thought that I still, so each afternoon was an exquisite excuse-whip, denial-blend, of got-it-wrongs and not-nows.

And there were two post-scripts I’d rather not pitch. My fruit basket’s a balance and each is ready to mulch in their own clothes.

So I married Ryan Reynolds.

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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