Monday, June 10, 2013

i sit cross-legged on your kitchen floor, holding a cigarette out of the window while you 
walk in barefoot and lift your shirt 
to show me your new tattoo.
[i'll always be that memory now, you know?]

you hate my smoking because
you want me around for the future.
i spent years joking about cancer and 
look where it got me. 
[touch my face now or maybe in thirty years and see
me young as the day we met.]

i am irony and maybe i am dying.
you joke about marrying me, i joke about
saying yes.

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