Today’s poem was not written today. I am cheating. This is not common. I don’t get cheating. Want to fuck other people? Break up with the person you’re with. Losing at a game of cards? Practice. Get better. Someone gave you the wrong change and you think you should keep it? Karma is going to bite you in the ass.
I can’t lie either. My eyes aren’t the windows to my soul. They’re doors, massive Venetian doors. And the keys are always dangling in the lock. I can’t help it. I’ll even blurt out the truth when I’m getting away with a lie. I can’t cheat or lie for shit. I am a god damn angel. Albeit a cussing one.
So, this poem wasn’t written today. Wait, the fact that I’m admitting it means I’m not cheating, right?
(That’s another thing I do. Obsess over details that mean jack shit.)
This poem was written last Friday. What was so special about last Friday, I hear you ask. Well, I’m glad you did, because you’re about to find out, yet again, that sometimes I am kind of awesome.
It’s Thursday night. Sunshine and I are at a dinner party with lovely people. We cannot stop giggling. We cannot stop ignoring aforementioned lovely people. Our bad. By midnight we are drowsy with wine and food, and our abs hurt. We make our excuses and bail.
At home, Sunshine says, ‘Dude, I’m not tired anymore. Do you want to go into town?’
I am tired. I am broke. I say, ‘Sure!’
In town we drink Bloody Mary’s (our drink because, like I said, we’re awesome) and discuss hopes and dreams and pains and all the regular things one discusses at 2am on a Thursday night in a hipster bar. Bygones.
We get tired again. We leave. On the way home (again), Sunshine says, ‘I could just keep driving right now. Go on a roadtrip or something.’
I say, ‘OK.’
She says, ‘What?’
I say, ‘Let’s go.’
She says, ‘Whaaaat?’
A few sentences later, we swing past our respective houses to pick up the essentials (clothes, toothbrush, puppy).
At 4am, we yell ‘ROADTRIP!’ just like they do in the movies and buy coffees.
By 6am we’ve been playing ‘Screw/ Marry/ Throw off a cliff for over an hour. Also, we’re delirious.
At 7am, we sleep.
We spent two days playing cards and drinking wine.
It’s a good life.
We bubbled through the barbecue, over other people’s words,
catching eyes and smiles all the way to pineapple mascarpone.
I’m drunk, she said. Pour me some more wine, please.
And then we left with vows to see the shinier side of noon.
Instead, we rode our chapsticks to the moon where we wrapped our lips
around Bloody Mary’s and drew charts of cheap dreams.
In the belly of the night we decided to escape.
Further this time. Beyond the moon.
And by the time we day started digesting the night,
we were on the road with light hearts and pregnant bags.
We drove for hours, aiming to jump off the horizon.
I lit her cigarettes and molested the radio for a soundtrack
to our spontaneity. We arrived as the day cracked through the clouds
but we locked it out with a remote control, and surrendered.