We’re Not Romantic, But Fuck It

The way I want you isn’t romantic. It’s not something I tell my friends about anymore. I don’t want to see disapproving faces. I just want your mouth on mine.

And yes, I know, I can’t keep spinning wool and think it’ll turn to silk. I can’t feign heartbreak when we’ve made it clear from the start. You send text paragraphs and I forgive. My fingers say, “it’s okay.” My fingers say, “honey, I’ll let you make it up to me.”

I’m calling when I’m in Los Angeles. I’m taking an Uber to your place and you’re talking about my poetry like you read it religiously. I don’t believe in God, so there’s no need to lie. There’s no need to make us into something we’re not.

Part of me is still in love with my ex. Part of you is in a different state.

Is there any bit of romance in the fact that we’re both unavailable? Is there anything that makes this worth it?

I don’t even care.

Your mouth makes me forget the question.