You lay on your stomach
with your arm around
my waist, pizza crumbs
on the snow-white sheets,
my body cold from the fan.
But I can't sleep without
the noise. And when the light
sneaks through the window
I ask what you're thinking.
You say your head's empty,
pounding from the gin
but with only me in mind,
and you came so fast
I didn't even notice. That’s
the problem with condoms.

Last night we played
Shit Happens, a game
you brought with drugstore
wine. I never drink red.
Stains my teeth. And I
grab the hat you found in
Times Square, muss your
grey-streaked hair till you
shake off my touch.

You say I’m sexy as hell.
I say, “I’m mostly just regular.”
And we won’t get out of bed
because it’s Sunday and we
hate folding laundry. We will
watch Zootopia on Netflix, close
our eyes and clear our minds,
so that I never have to wonder
if this will be enough.