Hey.
Here's a new (new to non-Patreon types) poem. Another www.textsfromlastnight.com one. For daily, curated Jara weirdness, you can jump on board for as little as a buck a month - just click HERE !
(801): The last person that asked me out got pushed down an escalator.
Change your tone, Brandon.
None of this whispered questioning
about "desire" while we're at a goddamn birthday party.
It's public.
We are eating –
I mean, there's cake –
Sinful portions of dark chocolate.
And you're towering over me like some
sad, half-starved goat.
We are eating –
I mean, there's cake –
Sinful portions of dark chocolate.
And you're towering over me like some
sad, half-starved goat.
If you keep talking,
I will finish my slice,
blot the crumbs with a napkin,
and kick the fucking breath out of you.
Just one good blow.
Not even at full strength.
Ah. Now your eyes, those dark,
overbounding, arresting eyes - they meet me. You demur,
Nod an apology, cross to the couch.
Seven minutes later, you're a ghost.
Make some quick goodbyes to the host,
hug the birthday girl,
smile sadly.
(when you smile, you always smile sadly)
Step into the rain.
Out beyond reason, I text you.
Tell you I'm sorry. That it just wasn't
proper. The time, place. You're agreeable
and burbling apologies yourself.
What I'll never, never say:
there was a window,
months ago,
when I was sick with fever
and you were a novel sound
giving me life.
Dreams - I had such foolish dreams
of what we could have been,
our muddy time.
Yet somehow, I found the strength
to rise from bed,
lift up the sash,
hit that unforgiving, solitary ground,
once more running.
I will finish my slice,
blot the crumbs with a napkin,
and kick the fucking breath out of you.
Just one good blow.
Not even at full strength.
Ah. Now your eyes, those dark,
overbounding, arresting eyes - they meet me. You demur,
Nod an apology, cross to the couch.
Seven minutes later, you're a ghost.
Make some quick goodbyes to the host,
hug the birthday girl,
smile sadly.
(when you smile, you always smile sadly)
Step into the rain.
Out beyond reason, I text you.
Tell you I'm sorry. That it just wasn't
proper. The time, place. You're agreeable
and burbling apologies yourself.
What I'll never, never say:
there was a window,
months ago,
when I was sick with fever
and you were a novel sound
giving me life.
Dreams - I had such foolish dreams
of what we could have been,
our muddy time.
Yet somehow, I found the strength
to rise from bed,
lift up the sash,
hit that unforgiving, solitary ground,
once more running.
There's work to be done.
Limited time.
Concessions must be made.
Concessions must be made.
