Date

“ He tells me that my body shuts offLike an angry faucetWhenever we touch,

“You morph into a winter wave,You freeze,You bruise,”

I smile sadlyAnd peck him on the cheek,He grins.

“I’m drunk.Don’t listen to me.”

The bar is stickyWith molding cocktails,Memories,Empty kisses,Cream-colored lustSplattered onto the plastic skinsOf old red booths,

“Are you drunk, too?I love this song!”

I open my mouth to askIf he knows that I hate him,

My question is interrupted byA ball of oldUnbrushedHairFalling out of my mouthAnd onto the ground,

Plop!

“I think I might love you”

His face fills with red regret

“Stop listening. I shouldn’t talk so much.”

I want to sink into the wooden wallAnd become an etchingOf initials belonging to long-haired lovers,

A piece of old gumPressed underneath the table,

A dated print of an oil paintingDepicting a splintered womanWho threw kisses to men,A breed she was not designed toPlay catch with.

An angel with long blonde hairRises from one of the boothsAcross the barAnd starts to dance,I try not to look.

I take a shot and look at my shoes,Hearing my mother’s voice in my ear.

She reminds me to cross my legs.

I take another shotAnd yawn.He leans in,I itch a fake scratchOn my faceIn the opposite directionOf his mouth,

“Okay, let’s go. I’ve said enough tonight.”

I stand,Stumble,Look to the wall once more,Longingly,

What a life it would beTo live in there.

He grabs my handAnd grins:

“You’re strange.You’re different.I like that about you.”