Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Plenty of any one.

There was the one who liked salt and pepper and morning sex standing up.
There was the one who kissed with lips too pursed, that swallowed some pips and died one summer.
There was the one I bought a drink who took a pill, danced, caught a cab and vomited on my naked chest.
There was the one I went away for, the one I came back for and the one that got away who I thought got away but was never actually gone.
There was the painter, the clerk, the baker and the sanitary bin salesperson; the copywriter, the art director and their boss; the writer, the publisher and the publisher’s publicist who wore a skirt with no underwear and gargled whiskey before bed.
There was the one who wrote poems, carved our names in trees and left Milo stains on the valour couch.
There was the one who read Hemingway, said it was trash and sold her pubes on eBay.
There was the one who invited me over to play games and touched my penis for the first time just as Mario overtook Luigi.
There was the one who ate cigarettes in a park and pulled mocking faces at the zoo.
There was the one I fell in love with for the first time who put footprints on my heart.
There will be the one who likes to conjugate verbs and study the Atlas and correct me in front of strangers.
There is the one who still stalks the latter parts of my nightmind, licking their lips, wide eyes trained on my knees and neck and mouth.

And there is the one who knows a lot can be said for saying nothing at all, about her.