On some nights, you would tell that I am a Jane, or a Chloe too. I did not know I was wearing the same nail color. I was about to chip them off the night before.
On some nights, you would tell stories about the world – and the quaint transformations that various generations sculpted, producing early occurrences and young obscurities.
On some nights, you were my groupie. I was tracing the blots all over your pallid presence – like a canvass waiting for the brush’s touch. While you kept defining the curves, the bends of the unplanned, while we ardently swerve as one until the night breaks into a dawn.
On some nights, you would resent the memory of a fantasy. You refuse to peek at what you can recall. Perhaps the story was not to be published. It was just some fleeting phrase among the clusters of long paragraphs in our books.
On some nights, you would revisit the arch that my torso shapes – and we would adore Sean Ono Lennon for the rest of the pseudo-lovemaking.
On some nights, you would again astound me with a blast from the past. I can taste the sharpness of the old country’s pungent flavors. I was stoked to return to decades and years I was not acquainted with.
On some nights, you would not stop. We both lost a day outside a cozy sanctuary. But we fervently traded it for the intense exchanges in the midst of pizza, calamares, wine, and of course, the attempt to touch each other’s lips in front of three squirrels.
It was actually just one night, and an entire day – but I would chop it in multiples. And I would spread the frequencies enough to cover my lifetime; because just like you, I became addicted to you too.
On some nights, some would retreat, some would lick, some would beg, some would leave, some could be left behind, some choose to be right, and some could be writing masterpieces once more.
I want you. And I fell in love with Bob.
*based on a sad song.