I was burning something
(I think the meat sauce)
as I wrote that short
story that I suck at writing.
I don’t believe in
short stories
short cuts
short fuses.
In a long line up
I read urban
dictionaries for
the fun of it.
If I don’t make you
nod your head
at my flakiness
then you do not
know me yet
nor do you want to.
My sense of humour
is on the tip of my tongue
as it lands in your mouth
and you catch
the innuendoes
dark humour
tragicomedies
–
Hence my really short story:
Once there was a boy
who called me every night
as I sat on my green carpet
twirled the telephone wire
as I played song after song
holding the phone
in the air. Of course, he
did the same. Trying to
outdo me; he wrote
me the most beautiful
card, with two tickets
to a rock show.
In English class,
he shared my book
and we read Romeo
and Juliet in unison.
He liked to call me
and tell me bullshit
stories about love
and rock songs.

I love your energy, he said
and so I asked him
to go to the show.
He said he was busy
and the very next day
he asked out Anne.

Twenty-five years later
he remembers the dance
at my party
Remember when we grinded, Chrissy?
Fucking prick, I thought.
I remember everythingI said and suddenly he shut up.
Everyone at the table
looked at me,
I could be dramatic like that.

Sophie winked, and Daniel smiled.

New boys
that everyone wants
and can never have,
that was Andre,
and if he reads this now
who gives a fuck?

No one could hold on to him
because we were similar
like that
Yet not.
My short story became a poem
I wouldn’t submit anywhere
for
who has the will
to drive down a new road
of detours and disappointments?