I once met a beautiful girl.
She thought I was beautiful too.
And one day, she wrote me a poem.
It said: Sunshine is like motorcycle sex, the marie antoinette of our holding hands.
Blankets are like childbirth gone wild, like jihad kissing in the rain.
I held her hand and told her: that was a terrible poem.
The first night I cooked dinner for her,
her voice lowered, her eyes painting me a two-year-old.
She informed me that the rice was not dry.
In the morning she explained that my alarm clock was disturbing,
that it sounded nothing like an ocean.
I showed her the hole in my gut from her middle-of-dream elbow.
She fed me breakfast while I watched Sports Center,
so she could complain while my mouth was full and I could not reply.
I knew it was a mistake to take her dancing,
so I did, welcoming the fluster in her face,
as she told me this song really does have two separate rhythms.
On the drive back to her place,
she pointed out that I always veered to the edge of the lane,
and that she didn’t know Tourette’s could manifest in turn signals.
And this is why we fuck.
Nothing turns us on like honesty.
We melt each others’ egos into the purest lubrication.
She trusts me when I lick the sweat from her belly.
I know she means it when she whispers yes.
In the morning,
the roaring alarm clock
is a mutual seduction.
When it’s my turn to feed her breakfast,
the television is off.