transcript of a bar napkin, without pretentious ridges, nor metal straws.

Oi. A broken heart is an unattractive heart in New York. A broken heart is a heart unable to be fed. There is no cure for shaved and untouched legs. There is no cure for unanswered late-night phone calls. The unanswered call strings beside many dismissed things, only to be more unanswered amongst the others, in a feasible morning of yogurt and berries. Unquenched is not an option; heartache is not an answer. There are only so many instances spent alone at a bar that can be acknowledged or excusable. The thought of sleeping alone can be awful; however, the thought of sleeping unquenched is far worse. Knowledge is key and experience is of utmost importance. Solitude is an argument against oneself and the sooner it is realized as optional, the easier it is to bear. Love is a two way street and disappointment from it is sought only within it's intersections. It is easy to write and correspond to these feelings of dismay, but much harder to surrender to them; forgetting them and their capabilities, all while moving beyond. The prospect of you walking through the door is meek. And, it makes me ill.

When we come out, and say we were in love all along, heads will nod, hands will shake and photos will be taken--as if it were always supposed to be.

We will sit and stare back awed, because our love is all our faulty and flawed similarities.



We will have probably gained weight.