United States

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The name's Q.
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I'm a slut for poetry
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The Art of a Late Time Love

July 20, 2018


I glance at the clock. 1:43am. “Shoot.” I whisper under my breath, I am way later then I told Marcy I would be. I tiptoe through the cluttered room trying to avoid collision with a mess I had probably forgotten to clean up. Peeking into the kitchen, I see the sink empty of dishes and I feel a pang of guilt knowing she had done my job for me.
The door to our bedroom is slightly open but all the lights are off so I know she’s either angry, asleep, or both. I pray she is none of the above. Her sleeping form is a blanket covered lump huddled in a ball facing away from me, all I can see of her is the poofy tuft of hair curling over the tangle of sheets. I crawl into bed next to her, she is very asleep—which is very cute—and I feel terrible. I lay down next to her, not even bothering to change out of my clothes. Wrapping my arms around her I bury my face in the back of her neck. She is very warm—which is also very cute—and I am cold, so, so cold. I feel Marcy melt into me and the hum of our bodies sync up.
We fit.
She starts to stir and I want to gut myself for possibly waking her up. Her warm calloused fingers find mine and bring them to her chest and I die inside because it’s so unfair that someone like this can be so sad and so broken, and I hate that all I can do is sit and hold her as she self destructs because what she needs is not something I can give her and I hate that.
I hate that.
I squeeze her hand. She shifts again and I know she’s awake. We spend a few seconds in silence, letting ourselves be comfortable.
“You actually made it home.” Marcy sighs sleepily. I am surprised by the lack of hostility in her voice.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m dumb.” I say nuzzling her neck.
“Hey, you’re here now.”
“I should have been here sooner.”
“Better late than never.”
“I don’t want to be one of those people.”
“Ha what do you mean?”
“I want you to be able to hold me to some kind of standard, I don’t want you to not expect anything from me. I should at least be able to get myself home in time to make dinner.”
“That would be nice. I had to eat oatmeal for dinner and it came out really watery.”
“Damn, see? What kind of awful boyfriend am I? Just leaving you to starve.” I say squeezing Marcy as tightly as I can which causes her to hack a little bit. She laughs, “You are not an awful boyfriend. It’s not your fault I'm incapable of cooking.” She turns over kisses me lazily. I feel my stomach drop, explode and disintegrate.
I don’t deserve this.
I move my hand up to cup her face and bring her closer. I want us to stay like this forever but we don’t. She rests her head on my chest which is very okay. I feel her hair scratch my chin, which is also very okay. I think we will be okay.
This is just a little something I wrote to pass the time.


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  • July 20, 2018 - 1:08pm (Now Viewing)

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