"Well, you're a romantic bastard, I'll give you that"

For some reason I typed those words
and watched that video. Paul Newman
was riding a bike, stole a girl from his
partner, and I remember the way
that I felt really matched up to that
youtube clip.
47 seconds of
Pure.
Joy.

This is the last poem I think I will
write about this because I need to take
a break from thinking about September
12th and how incredible everything was
up until four o'clock.

Sorry I pretended to be a slut
I liked you so much I was
letting my mouth run off and
I felt really validated and really
cool and I'm sorry I'm such a fucking
idiot.

I can no longer deny that I am
blood and guts and fucked up.