Red wine dribbling
out of your laughing mouth
and onto your bare tits
as I pinched your hips
and told you how
I climbed Mt. Everest twice
and decided
it took some getting used to.
I thought,
I am a kid here again,
awkward and forgetful.
Tell me you want me
to carve “Arriving Soon”
on your tombstone,
I love that one.
And about your time spent
waiting for your soup
and experiencing eternal nothingness.
“It’s fine,” you’ll say,
“But you need hobbies.”
I love having pillow talk, even though
you always get all the good lines.
Like how rhubarb must be such a lonely thing
without strawberries,
or how Spinoza disproved God’s existence
by showing the impossibility
of getting a plumber on the weekend.
By this point
I had a hard on
and you were falling asleep.
Each day has a certain time,
and man was this it.
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