Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off your Gilmore Girls Netflix marathon and join me for a drink.
There are four pictures of you. Three are you. One is a cat on a window. This is true. I once fought a bull in Pamplona and it was a good feeling. A man died. Have you ever fought a bull?
A free bird leaps
on the back of my thumb
and swipes downstream
till the matches end
and dips his wing
in this chat we’re in
and dares to say ur cute.
There are legions of men that lay siege to your doorstep. Caution must be taken under the shimmer of moonlight, for Vladimir is not the man he seems, as I saw him dine with the famed Natasha Petranova two fortnight’s ago. Neither is Ivan nor Alexei, for they truly are in love with Maria Kuznetsov, though she cheated on Mikhail with Boris. But Mikhail is secretly in love with Olga, Alexei’s cousin. Alas, I digress, as tonight is our last together, for I bravely march into Tanya’s soul cycle class at first light.
The scoundrels on this desolate wasteland are thieves, protesting for a piece of your heart that they have not labored or paid for. Must I remind you that I earned this bottle of Merlot for us tonight not with government handouts but by my hard work of walking two blocks to Trader Joe’s?
My heart aches, beating alone, ever in search of a man worthy of my tender affection. I see amongst your collection of portraits that you possess an admirable pedigree, made evident by the wooden stable of thoroughly bred Aston Martins in portrait number three, four, and seven. You, my dear, appear from wealth and large estate, though I fear you cannot handle my fiery independence nor eight cats. Take me to the ball at Hertfordshire and passionate congress may indeed transpire.
O’ dare I say ’tis a cold winter’s night, forever alone in my sunless chambers! Not since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea of honey suckling swiping ye right, have I laid gaze to thy beauty holdeth mimosa at Chateau de MGM Grand. To thine own sex be true.
I am alone. This night depresses me, yet I want nothing. I understand if you won’t reply. Kiss me and you will see death disappear. I will order pizza.
Though you may hear me holler,
And you are quite a catch—
I’ll be dogged, sweet baby,
Even after you unmatch.
Swipe, join and sweet. Harpoon, my thumb. Suppose meeting were exchanged and we strolled down to harbor, what lovely night under stars. Stagecoach appeared, sardines on the shelves. Father O’Flynn would be delighted, rub a handkerchief on your nose, the whiskey crept up to me, no feeling. Famished ghosts. Ye!
U up? I up.