'Work is for the boring and luck is for the privileged.'
She said that to me once, on the corner of 76th
and Broadway at a red light in the foggy confines
of my crappy car on a rainy Tuesday. I never really
understood what she meant,
or why I missed her like death.
But she was married now and I was finally ok with that.
(I bet he doesn’t even make you laugh the way I
I just wished,
for the next girls sake,
she hadn’t left me so jaded.
In the end I guess I can admit
to being guilty for a misdemeanor
like always acting so heartless
and cold with the women I’m lying
but every time I’m robbing affections
each and every one of my ex’s drives the getaway car.
It’s not all my fault. It takes two to make an accident
(just ask my parents). But I always get the blame
for other peoples lives sucking -
But I like x’s; without them it’s just kisses
and I’ll kiss just about anyone.
Like she did when she told me
she wouldn’t go to prom without me
but went anyway behind my back.
Then I hated her all over again. I hated her so much
my eyes zipped to and from the crest of her v-neck blouse
to the smoothe curve of her lips and cheeks,
deviously plotting where I would love her first.
With her black dress laced across her skin, I wondered
if she was born that way: so perfect.
I want to tell her,
but I’m not so good at expressing
myself. Sometimes the words come to me
tenderly with wanting arms and embrace.
Other times I just drink.