you worshipped blankets, chocolate cake
and friction. over receptionists and
those everyone in balck with tatoos covering
their poor family relationships house parties in Wicker Park
we always took your car and I drove while you drank my Russian Vodka
out of plastic blue cups and your friends drank in the back and spilled their
sexual escapades over the backseat of your car.
When the car was crowded I heard, "Martin our sober stallion and thanks for driving us",
but when it was you and I, I smoked cigarettes to cover up the uncomfortable silence that exhausted us in the bedroom, and kept you withdrawn and me disconnected like your dyslexic car stereo that obsessed over the CD tracks and skipped over details like you did when you were out with your girl friends without me.
And we always met up at 2617 Washtenaw, behind the expressway and a bit down the road from California a trip we took and spent more money on shiny excuses then we did together connecting or even elaborating on the same stories we shared over and over.
Earlier I aksed you to guess that I was going to play "Say Yes", by Elliott Smith, but you were withdrawn, and closed the door in the bathroom,
so I put on the stereo, and cleaned up my frown to make way for artificial cheery eyes, and joined you in the shower to recite Shakspeare especially because we met during the balcony scene.
Love has been rough, so I walked to my Shell and bought fare $5 unexpectedly to drive myself crazy and sad, alone on 94 to spend time away from us, and gather together for my Deppression playlist and another all-night cigarette binge-so surprised I dropped "I drug you" before "I love you", to further your intoxication so when we dried out I'd realize how toxic our relationship has been. Often you traded text-messages with guys named Angel while we watched
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
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