He shot me
with his eyes as I waited on the street corner
for the red light to turn green
with a plastic CVS bag
cradling half a gallon of milk and a box of tampons.
The smoke cleared
from my eyes and I saw him diffuse into the atmosphere
of our local tavern happy hour.
We mixed red wine with our hearts
And devoured each cup like thirsty grad students.
I told him how he shot me
and he offered to show me his gun-
I told him that the light was still red.
"We both want the same thing,"
he whispered into my eyes,
but personally I thought it was the other way around.
His bed looked just like a frozen waterfall
and felt about the same.
But before long the bed was singing,
the song was sweating,
the sweat was pulsing,
the pulse was bleeding,
the blood was smelling,
the smell was tasting
the taste was icing,
the ice was melting.
And when we fell apart
like two used kitchen sponges, wrung together then carelessly tossed aside,
I gazed down at my weary carcass
and thought to myself
"Fuck. I left the milk out."
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