When I met you, you were a menthol smoking specter in denim,
sprouting from a corner bar stool.
But under the raccoon eyes and wiry hair,
you were some work of art,
features that Degas would’ve been proud to carve,
and some kind of quiet storm in your eyes,
a rabid dog stuck in heavy rain.
Then that centuries old curse possessed me,
the one that projects us into a future,
laughing at a distant beach somewhere,
our skins glowing gold.
—
We’ve been dating for five years and have never been to a beach.
You’re throwing up into the toilet, too many bad cocktails in your stomach,
I have a wet towel on my head, my veins are screaming for mercy, we stink like desperate sex.
A metamorphosis Kafka would’ve been proud to write.
our skins are a sickly pale,
the storm in your eyes is long gone.
