Forty minutes
and you are
Chez Oskar
and the cigarette smoke
sneaks up
the back
through my hair
so we move
to a table
where the mosquitos
play
and you say,

I don’t like
watermelon,
just anchovies in
my salad
and smart girls

you say that
I talk too much
about babies
too much
I know but
it’s

the neck kisses
on street corners
making me warm
and wet in
the rain

but cringing
the moments
before “Goodnight”
unable to control
my reactive
animations
too old to be walking
away with a
courtesy, wondering
if this is what
Grace would do

and when i get home
my elbows
are raw from
leaning too much
on the bar,
drinking too much
tequila, salt
on the rim
razing my tongue

and I think,
maybe you’re him

or maybe
he doesn’t exist