What The Frick, Heart?

You have your boyfriend and your marijuana to go home to and I have my stupid fucking young, salty face.


I knew it was your birthday. I thought all day, “Hey, it’s Joe's birthday!”, with that excitement and all because I want you to be here in New York and I want you to want me, quite simply.

But you ain't here and I should be over this by now.


I’ve been smitten around a boy or two these days.

Real smitten.
Boringly smitten.
The sort of smitten you shouldn’t have over a one night stand… extended.


But that’s where it started.

And that's where it tends to always start these days.

It’s five am. I’m supposed to be checking my luggage on a flight to Denver right now but since I am apparently heartbrokenly drunk off of your kiss (god, I didn’t know I loved your lips-- I didn't know at all. . . ) and left with the reminiscence of the boy who did follow me when I ran out of a bar with my heart in my mouth and a boy who did kiss me passionately before bidding me farewell (with tears in his eyes, over another woman, none the less), who also, mind you, doesn’t care who I sleep with because of said other woman. . . .


It's weird-- I caught myself daydreaming about an apartment we would live in together.


Men... departed. And, if I could be, I would choose that way, too.


I can smell myself wanting you.


I haven’t felt that way in so long and I can't remember the last time I whispered, "I love you," during sex.


You lucky bastard.