you invite me to travel with you to berlin.
i ask when you’re leaving.
i tell you i’m not sure.
which is the best truth i can tell you right now.
we’ve been spending a lot of time together lately. which is surprising because our first i guess… date? ended with you buying us drinks that you stormed out on before we ever settled in enough to sip.
you texted me the next day, i’m not sure why.
i wasn’t going to apologize for what i said, but i respected your commitment to your beliefs.
you told me talking to me was just going to hurt you. i respected that, and agreed it’d be best to cut communication before we disliked each other. our first encounter was really pleasant previous to that, and maybe it was worth sanctuary.
that didn’t work.
you sent me a magazine article about the rodins going up in the museums. half joking about me being a fanboy, which i owned.
some how we end up getting dinner together in meatpacking.
then we walked.
then more wine.
then … more wine.
it’s nice and you stare at me a little too long while we say goodbye at the train. the train makes me think about someone else, and i walk away, even though you both have the same eyes, or maybe that’s precisely why.
we talk often of former sexual partners. it’s nice, it’s never a smudge on our experience, more an open borders policy. we never identify them, they’re always referred to generically as colorless objects in an abundant trail of trials.
after we goto the william vale building for the view, you make me laugh on the elevator when you capture the vacancy of everyone scuttling around with their cameras bedazzled by “how pretty” everything is. as if they’re somehow themselves, being elevated by the pristine aesthetic of the building, or adding to the decor. you find it all a little too precious.
i ask if you got the bathroom selfie, you tell me it can’t be a selfie if you made the attendant snap it.
you ask me whats next, i tell you im going to a place where bathroom walls are covered in markers and graffiti, where screamed sentences disappear under the wailing guitars.
you tell me your down.
we drink sofia coppola’s, and then cheap beers with terrible shots.
outside in the courtyard i must have said something you liked because your eyes are inside my head so deep i can’t say another word. when my brow reveals my confusion you say..
“i think we should kiss now.”
i throw my cigarette to the ground and get lost in your mouth, the same way i have a thousand times, with a hundred girls, and like always, it’s different, and wonderful.
i don’t remember how the rest of it happened, but those kisses some how carried us into a bed, where we laughed and fucked for hours.
your eyes betray you. they tell me i have sex with you like i’ve known you longer than this life. that everywhere i touch feels like a game i’ve mastered like the pool junkies at the bar doing a lap to maneuver the entire table before precisely sinking the eight ball.
i laugh. you push me a little thinking i’m being arrogant.
you don’t know i don’t care about whatever you’re saying. i just have no idea what to do with the condom.
i put it on the shelf, you ask what i’m doing.
i tell you i have to work tomorrow.
you tell me to come cuddle you until then.
we put on a werner herzog film about the machine apocalypse and impending technological doom. we both laugh as he earnestly questions a bot boy, “do you love robot 8?”.
as i fall asleep i tell you “the only way to win is not to play.”
you always say the right things, and its fun, but..
i’m not going to go to berlin.
i’m enjoying watching my mind unfold, but when it’s done…
i’m going home.