it's noon. all morning
we fucked in lowercase.
we wait in the diner
for your omelette.
you doodle
naked celebrities
on the napkins.
i duck behind my menu
as if it were a sandbag,
under fire from
your magic whips,
red bull torture,
slack mouth and
textbook timing.
"thanks," i say.
it's our 3rd binge
this october ..
the waiters
know our names.
do they know
our secret?
i close the menu.
i remember when you
put your cigarette out
on your wrist. it hissed
and left a hole in your skin.
we had a fight that night.
we were drunk.
you smacked me. i pushed you.
you tripped and fell. that's when
you lit the cigarette and—
i wonder what i said
that caused you to do it.
i remember i shouted some insult
and then you looked at me and
you winked and flashed
your liquored smile and spit
in my face and—
was it the other way around? was it you
who delivered the blow?
i sat in overwhelming sunlight
bitter with martinis and rum
and squeezed the meaning
out of every vodka-drenched word.
now i remember. i was the one
who had the marlboro.
i twirled it in my fingers like a
ninja sword and pressed it deep
into my skin—
was I even there?
let me start over.
there was a hole. but you made it,
not me. you spit in my face,
chugged 2 liters of sunlight
and then burned me.
the hole spread everywhere.
we stood up and i held
your hand and the clouds
puffed beneath us like a rug.
that's when you said: "I give up."
we examined the black wound.
we realized it wasn't a wound.
it was a dot. a permanent dot.
a period. remember?
