A love letter for the waitress who brought me rose tea three nights ago

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March 15, 2015 by Wayne.

love blows a bubble of expiry
into timelessness
love is the trick of finding,
absolving, losing.

but why talk of love
and why so poorly

i’ve faded as much as i can.
i reek of beaten poetry now
smell of heady sharpie haze and sex
you, who said you wanted to be a
costumed handmaiden,
dancing between angled rows and
drunk tourists to wherever the fuck
i said that’s stupid but i meant
please go on don’t
stop talking about it don’t
stop talking
i said that’s so fucking stupid
of all the fucking things you could do
but i really meant i wanted you
to dream about whatever you wanted
as long as you told me about it
i said don’t go
but i meant don’t let me go
not now when i finally need you
when i can’t remember
the curve of your back
and your recoiled neck

i can’t dream of love in times like this
when i say i want to get bored with you,
not of you
it doesn’t make sense even to me
even as i watch it leave
the bubble of unspoken thoughts
where they’re full and ready

i miss you, if that’s what it means
to need you to talk again
i’ve used all the letters i know,
and i know they’re not enough.

me me me

the daphnecharice headshot

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