The Drop
Never underestimate the power of two
beers, simple carbs, and complex
entanglements: consumption followed by
sex. February shouldn’t be the cruellest
month, but my skin hurts. You followed
me to my apartment and called me “baby.”
An endearment? Enter Hallmark holidays,
pet names. A year later you’re sick
with morning. I’m begging the bed to stop.
I can’t eat Vietnamese spring rolls
without recalling the drop. One moment
you’re sitting beside me on the couch,
and next we’re tied like helium balloons
to an Eighth Street counter. You can
fly, or you feel like you can fly. Never again.
We’re more than just friends. Engraved
on a gold ring are initials, and my initial
reaction is disbelief. We can’t fly
fueled by acai bowls and humidity. Fuck,
don’t mention “summer,” not now, to me.
We’re spending a quarter of the month
in a kinder space, but you won’t kiss
and tell anyone where we’re going.
Cacti Fur 