You were great this weekend, honey. Your thighs were so slick
and meaty they screamed sex, sex, more sex. We tried to oblige

the calling in the night, on a borrowed futon, off Hacienda Ave.
And in the afternoon, when I got back to my house and sat down

to quiet and a book, I could still smell your hair on me, and re-
member now that you said it was Chanel. And remember the

Juicy Lips you stole from Lancôme. And after I hadn’t seen you
for four weeks that glittery powder all over your collarbone and

breasts was enough to make it feel like it had all started again.
Love is so strange these days; you tell yourself one thing, one

person, even one type and sure as shit you’ll end up with another.
And another thing: when I was giving you that temple massage

to make your hangover go away, I meant every word of it. I mean,
I meant it at the time. When we fall in love, why can’t we just enjoy

the fall, enjoy doing the time? Like in prison you might learn some-
thing new, like carpentry, or the books of the Bible, or all about the

Epic of Gilgamesh. Little wedge-shaped marks on stone, telling us
of the harlots and heroes, and all the battles and love. Something

about me and you, the way we dream at night. The way day takes
it all away, and makes us forget the truth we knew the night before.