the details are fading fast
from the impressions in my mind.
i remember how you went down
on me, but i can’t seem to
figure out what the hell we were
talking about for the five hours before.
if i was only a fuck you’d never
have to see again, a pretty little
punk girl from new york city,
why did you ask me over and over
how i wanted it and lay my
clothes out on the bed when i
decided to leave?
this is madness that i am even
considering any of this, since the
truth is that i’m sure you’ve forgotten
your infidelity already, except
to tell your raquetball buddy
what good lays new york city
village girls make after you’ve had a few.
i’m glad i’ll never have to see you
again, since there’s no way i’m
about to become your poet-whore.
but this no-follow-up business is
eating away at my brain–
at least with the others there was
always a way for me to get scoop
without ever having to confront,
to open up, spit out, and swallow down.
yes, the others, i could watch and
listen to their faithless unions from
a safe distance, no involvement.
but you have left me blindfolded and bound,
having only blurry visions of night then morning,
until the next one comes along
and i fool myself into thinking that
this will be the one who will release me.


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