I have a date in fifteen minutes. I have a date for the next ten, twenty years.
I’m at the bar as an appetizer. I’m trying Japanese Whisky, IWAI Blue Label as an aperitif. I have more pink roses in my bag as an apology. It seems my talents are as wasted as—let me say something nice. I have no doubt, regardless of my behavior, that my date deserves these roses. I would’ve preferred better terms, but it takes pain to learn. Only when lay eyes on her, do I see how much laying on others can hurt.
But I continue. I misuse her. I abuse her. She doesn’t tell me she cried. That’s a privilege I don’t deserve. I’m unworthy. The pain is here to help, but whatever love I might feel is only observed. Words and words. They have all been heard. They have all been said. Is life repetition or will continue to repeat after I’m dead? Love isn’t blind. It’s deaf. We meet as you’re wet. As the cheeks hold all my regrets. I’m there. But I’m also here. Must I close my eyes to see you clearly? Then pout later. Moan louder. Guide my hand as I join you in the shower.