Romeo Dear, Oscar Bravo
I must write this, in case. In case I don’t.
I don’t think I loved you. Smoke got in my eyes. It’s a childhood thing. Not getting what I wanted and not knowing or getting to know if I ever really wanted it anyway. Because you don’t belong to me, and you won’t.
So lets clink Harry Potter goblets of Stella and kiss in a red, dusty dream. Lets fuck on a bed of Ted’s hair and Sylvia’s bones. Let’s argue about a radio station that never existed. We’ll meet in Milton’s Paradise Lost, smiling without wrinkles at a groundhog sunrise we pretended wasn’t tempting, beautiful. And we’ll love the uncertain certainty of that sore orgasm that never happened because of timing. But we knew it would, eventually.
We’ll be the great pretenders like lonely boys and I’ll buy you twenty-dollar cigarettes in a service station on a cloud. You can pay me back in monopoly money. We’ll be as selfish as we proclaimed selfishly in the transit room we crashed without a skeleton key, once upon a time in never never land.
Lets pretend we both left with a six-pack. We booked a follow-up appointment. We understood the ending from two kilometres, a beer and a fag in.
But we didn’t. I took the wrong exit on the A1 and couldn’t afford the petrol anyway.
Echo Zulu Alpha Bravo Echo Tango Indigo Lima Hotel