I know how to love another human being

with thoughts and ideas

just like mine

With fears and dreams

Perhaps even greater than mine

I know how to love another human being

but a night out until sunrise lasts longer

and I don't want to come home.

Why do I fall for

males who give me the slightest bit of attention?

I am not talking about those passive-agressive types

the ones that ask you how your day went

without listening to the response

With the only hopes to eventually lock you down

into a domestic role

prying on the hopes

of women wanting to land a nice guy.

A nice guy who controls everything.

I am talking about the ones who notice the little things

Like how my right eye squints when I laugh.

I like those kind of men, the uncalculating kind

The ones that just blurt out stupidity.

I have always feared for

the day when my desperation

would succumb to stability.

For when that day comes

I know

I will lose all my madness

to the solid state of reasoning.

My victories will become histories

and my failures will become mediocrities.

And there is nothing worse than mediocrity.

I became a femme fatale

to escape the reality of domestic work

and paperbag lunches.

Little did I know

that I would be so popular

navigating through the world

with half-opened eyes and a handful

of sighs and giggles.

How come no one wants to hear my story

but everyone wants to see me dance?

I took a train

To the last stop on earth

The last city on Earth

Ushuaia, Argentina.

I stood on rock

and gazed out towards Antarctica

while penguins shuffled behind me.

The last words that came from my mouth

were your first and last name

I whispered them into the air

until their fog hardened onto the surrounding landscape.

The end of the world isn’t so bad when you’re part of it.

Last night I dreamed of castles in the sky and railroad tracks cutting through the ocean.

I see you as a stranger wearing a filthy coat. You're always just staning there, sauntering to and fro, looking through a restaurant window. Behind the fingerprint covered display window displaying the daily lunch special and we deliever sticker sponsored by postmates.

Why don't you ever take that thing off?

You finally do and sit at a small table. I can see you now. You're playing with your hair; your fingers dancing around clumpy, oily tresses while your thumb fiddles with a cracked phone screen.

I work on Wednesdays and I'm afraid to call in sick. I already did last week just to sit in bed with a bad hangover.

You gave the menu back to my coworker and curled the edge of the paper placemat one last time before standing up in one impatient sweep. The legs of the chair let out a wooden bang against the cement floor of the restaurant.

You were already swinging your dirty garment over your back like some sort of pathetic cape, the sort that anti-hero might wear.

You never order anything when you wait for me. No cookies, no coffee, no daily special crumb cake. You're a cheapskate, but a proud one. Unlike the usual customers that come in and look at the menu right after taking a piss or dumping a load in our tiny one stall bathroom. They want to seem polite while they take an average 5 second look at the menu. They are afraid of being rude, but more are afraid of being labeled as such.

"Oh, you don't have gluten-free desserts? I'll have to come back anyway sometime." They might say.

Fuck you, you weren't going to order anything anyway, you psuedo celiac.

That's what I hate about most people. They only do certain things out of guilt.

But not you. You have always been the flight to my fight. The habit of making me prolong things just so I can have another moment with you. Moments with you made me feel like a drunk taking the last drink at the bar before the lights came on. I have never felt so desperate to ingest one last moment with you than I did today.

Today, I did work. Unfortunately, I was running late and you, as the bartender in my life, already closed out the tab.