Boy, Really?

if you had said to me again
"don't fuck with me",
i would have stepped away
from the bottle,

not tried to turn this
into a celebration.

i would have left my gay at home,
kept my feet more firmly on the ground,
maybe would have cleaned my room a little.

"i can't believe the first time"
was all you had to say
to keep me the way
i have been since i ran into
your room, a note on the door,
my name spelt almost right,

a composition so arranged.

a few blacked out phone calls
sharing the worried character
of your numbing fingertips
was all i had
to make me think
our initial deliverance
was fair.

a picture falling from
its place on the wall,
was all there was,
in the middle of the night
you gave me away,

as you poured your mouth full
of liberation
from what you thought
you were getting yourself
into,
(exhausting yourself, you told me)

to let me know
that things were
only going to be

like this scratch on my face,
left from the acceleration
of buildings losing their place,
and the sharp corners
of the wooden frame against
my happy eyelids.

*
the less i think of you
the more i worry if you think of me