On Friday night we would hit
our favorite tourist street with a thousand dollars
and wind up with either two grand by dawn or a necessity
to hide from the cops with only twenty bucks between us.

I would tell the cute girls with long claws
that it was my birthday and split every free drink
with you. Even though you spent most of your time
looking outside for the white car that left you to die
in your bridesmaid dress in 1998.

Back then,
I believe you were living in Arkansas.
I was going back and forth from Missouri
to British Columbia on a bunch of wings
and even less in the way of shoddy prayers.

We didn’t actually meet
until 2003 repeated itself,
and everyone got desperate for road trips
they wouldn’t have to pay for later.

I remember the emergency room in Charlotte,
North Carolina. You were waiting for them
to pull the plug. Tear the burden down
like showbiz curtains and make it abundantly clear
that anyone who suffered as much as you did
shouldn’t have to climb twenty flights of dangerous stairs.

I got stoned out of my mind
with two failed schizophrenic nurses
dressed as actresses and threw down
the only two dance moves I know
before security took me away.

One of us got stuck with a long walk home.
The other knew how to steal a car.

We didn’t get around to exchanging names
until three months after your flirted the both of us
right through the front door of that perfectly
reasonable two bedroom apartment.

It might have been a bad idea
to get married beforehand.

You just haven’t been the same
since finding out how boring I can be most of the time.
The way I’m a big fan of Christmas
and drinking alone because the music is a lot better.

I have no idea what happened
and refuse to deal with it by any means
other than sarcasm.

05/20/2010

Posted on 05/20/2010
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