Jokes typed into text boxes are read by the very figure of delicate masculinity,
hips cocked and screen-finger flashing. Lips curved in constant disdain convert
to wild happiness in the click of an instant.
A picture of teenage beauty, extended for a year or two… or four.
Indefinitely. Sparking lighters and touching flame to the greatest of all peacemakers,
inhaling just to tell the realm of adult responsibilities to “fuck off, cunt!”
You flip burgers in dirty uniform shirts,
wearing circles of fryer grease like the spots of a much more predatory creature,
sneaking seconds to check your ever constant flow of communication.
Texts, and tumbles, and invites for casual awkward bumbles in the form of a young gay fuck –
it’s a secret you keep that you are shy and you are picky; that you are innocent beyond your aura.
Your love is locked up tight. Your love would have to deal with daily weed habits and shifting moods;
irregular schedules, late night anime, and a posse of chunky badass bitches.
Long stretches of silence.
It is difficult indeed to be someone who is very on and very off;
more difficult to find the type who can find a way to love a duality.
So for now you have a tribe.
You have no trouble sleeping on couches tucked away in a friend’s apartment,
washing dishes for your board, fishing work shirts from a pile on the floor.
This is what your twenties are for, with your car sitting dead downstairs in the parking lot.
This is how you conveniently ignore the glaring lack of future plans,
or even plans for matters that need immediate attention.
As long as you’ve got the next ride to work and a one-hitter in your pocket, it’s straight. It’s alright.
It’s all good and it’s about time to turn the damn song up and drive a little faster.
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