It’s like we are in the 1920s, a vintage
noir fabricated by deep shadows and
some lights so bright, you can’t help
but smile. Do they dance, side-stepping,
twirling madly, madly, insanely happy?
No, it’s a courtship.

Eyes imitating thick, rich caramel fogged by
the dense, salient smoke. Mist floods from each drag,
the hot and cold flirt so innocently, so eager with
breathless ambition, only to weave seamlessly
with soft, frisky air.

We made a crooked circle, beats,
the heavy beats control our whirl.
Some pointless babble dribbles from each link,
trying to dilute enchantment
but not at all to interrupt our chase.


The first time he told you
it wasn’t a parking ticket,
he chose his words carefully,
stressing the syllables
turning a story around,
as you both were
lying in his bed.

That’s it.
Instigator, you had to ask:
So you didn’t hit her?

Handing you a whiskey with a splash of coke,
he told you she was crazy, and just upset that he wanted to
leave her, how she lied when the police
knocked on his door. 

Sipping through a curly purple plastic straw,
you gestured the cup to him
and leaned a little too far into his shoulder,
spilling the drink onto his chest hair.

Both of you stayed in the bed
until five in the morning, licking
spilled alcohol, giggling at a movie
you had watched together at least
thirteen times that week.

Telling tales you promised to take to your grave,
you wanted this until you reached your grave,
skeletal hands mended together with mold and rot,
six-feet under, maggots would dig through the decay of two.
Remember when you beat him
in pool at that bar on Westheimer?
Sinking that eight ball in, smugly
he smirked, arms crossed—
he’s so competitive. 

But he did hit her.


So you aren’t messing around?
I would give him a long stare
later that night,
hands glued to my hips:
a power-stance.

Taylor Swift coached me
never to forgive a cheater,
But would he choose her?

I had just wrapped the new CD,
putting a bow over the cowboy hat of
his favorite country singer, and
put his beloved cheap beer to chill
in the fridge for his birthday.

Red hands torn and tipping
his last shitty beer into
a drunken mouth at
two in the afternoon,
I contemplated
laying in the shards of CD
and a blanket of wrapping paper
in the fetal position,
just for a second.