Okay, I know we fucked a year ago. Remember that sweet moment when the room cleared and you finally had me?
Okay! Okay, I know this is a year old and we didn’t work out and now we look worse but sometimes when I put on DevotchKa or MGMT and I’m walking idly across 14th, I think about the way you kissed me, how your lips clung to my neck, how your thin body felt hungry for mine and the two of us multiplied our wanting against our pale, deprived flesh, and you said something like:
“You might be the curviest girl I’ve ever made love to,” and three weeks of starving myself was realized and dismissed in one sharp slap.
Okay, your eyes were blue and blinked so innocently I don’t think you will ever know how much my fingers traced you for ongoing memories, or how long I looked into your wide-open lids and promised myself, maybe the only one that I’ve ever kept, that I wouldn’t care.