we sat on the floor
going through catalogs
of expensive birthday cakes
and studded tiaras for sweet sixteens.
you were rolling a joint, balancing
a thick book on your knees and we were laughing
about this one cake with a french maid carved into the top,
her bosom a heave of icing, like a sweet-toothed fantasy.
nothing about you was rehearsed and i liked that.
everyone else had gone to bed, we laughed so loud
someone banged something heavy on the floor above to quiet us.
the kid who brought the garbage bag full of baguettes
left two loaves on the table, we broke into them
stale and consumed by holes torn with drunken hands--
wine-soaked and slippery.
you lit up the little spliff and passed it to me,
we could hear the lovers in the next room over
and it was a sad sort of comfort that made you scoot next to me,
resting your head on mine in a lonely tilt
and said nothing for a long time.
you covered us with the quilt and laid me down with you.
you put me to sleep, running your fingers the length of my neck
to the top of my shoulders
and in the morning, when i woke with your body
so fiercely wound around my own--
for the first time in a while--
i found nothing to regret.

02/17/2008

Posted on 02/17/2008
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