Every day with her is special,
But on Monday, I give Marjorie a card that reads:
“Happy Zombie Presidents Day.
Abe Lincoln died for our sins.”
Every thing crumbles when she laughs,
But I absolutely hate it
when she says,
“You're too sweet.”
I confess everything;
of cops and robbers
of girls and bands
of gummy bears and mountain dew.
I tell her that I hate Poetry
But being poetic, like pro rasslin,' is pretty cool.
That moon jellies dance, that P.E. is always in the house,
And that Shakespeare was just as confused as everyone else.
I admit that I've always wanted to be about
sunshine, flowers, and good feelings
But I've been asked way too many times if I'm a foo who knows kung-fu
Beckoning my feet to constantly fail Anger Management 101.
I tell her that I'll always be my father's stubborn child
And my mummy's innocent saint.
That I'll always have my best friends,
and that they will always have my back to stab, to eat, and to feast.
In a world full of big talk and bigger silence,
I rat myself out.
I tell her that we're a billion things
and the illusion is that we're all nothing.
Marjorie smiles. She is into tarot.
Her cat eyes shimmers and glows.
And she says, “You're the devil;
Cunning, unexpected, and horribly charismatic.”
I've never felt more lost and hurt before in my life, but she pulls me in.
We kiss. Twenty. Three. Skidoo. . . I guess I'm over it.
Rain pours, and I'll never know what's going on in this world,
But I absolutely wouldn’t want it any other way.
