Poems about dating a married woman
(This is how we get pickier as we age—pattern-recognition, the erosion of goodwill.) Might as well scare off the weak ones.
So first things first: that profile could be made less patient. Less accommodating— to all the wanderers seeking shelter—you’re not shelter.
)(But moving on.) Goodbye, trying to think of a bar I don’t hate where I also won’t bump into friends.
The infatuated doodle adored initials on Trapper Keepers and never shut the fuck up. If love’s a fall, this is where you consider dismantling the railing. Goodbye, “some college,” whenthat lack of subject-verb agreement cries out for “more.” Speaking of my arrogance goodbye to your reading material. (Then again, I never finished either.) (And really, not a single book written by a woman?
Like an injury that will require you to be driven to the emergency room by some inconvenienced friend. We who’ve picked up all our bones and undertaken the long, slow climb to our remembered selves. Goodbye fake blood, prosthetic garotting, all-over face paint (I’m nerdy, but not like that).
Both logic and heavy foreshadowing suggest your “type” includes this hapless vessel for existential dread. In they pour, all corpse-breath and fang: Closet-dwellers.
) Night after night he lifts the sill to call the monsters.