I am two hours of wasted space
Examining the not so subtle differences of Missed Connections across multiple states.
New England: you have me totally fucked.
I long to write with abandon about my flagrant displays of unrequited affection
Thumbing through the Garth Brooks titles at Wal-Mart, in Salt Lake City, as a doe-eyed Mormon scratches at his undershirt because I make his teeth sweat.
I want to eat at an Applebee's because clearly they are a hot bed of heat lamps warming up the inner thighs of so many young boys in Minneapolis.
I will kiss that park ranger in Spokane who narrowly escaped my grasp.
I will hang on to his few remaining hairs, forget the need to define his ethnicity and know all I need which is his lips fit mine.
New England, I will stop dating unicorns.
I can no longer see a face pic online, seeming so fierce and unafraid, cower in the shadows as I scoot by on my fixed speed.
We will talk,
Not type,
Our love.
I will wear my grammar as a condom, protecting me from communicable diseases and bad syntax.
My relationships will end not with a preposition, but with proposition.
I will speak the words.
