My Love?

Let's go on long walks in Central Park until we find that perfect reading rock and lie in the sunshine with our literature, occasionally reading aloud the most interesting passages. Do you like Hemingway? I don't.

Then, we could get Firecracker popsicles and eat them messily without napkins and kiss the sugary stickiness from each other's faces as we search the city for the perfect refrigerator box to imagine ourselves into outer space. You can hold my hands and I will kiss your forehead, and somewhere, one of us will promise forever -- and the other will agree but not mean it.

Our respective bedrooms will smolder in the summer heat, the fans doing nothing, the windows wide open, and our bodies bared for all the city to see. "Fuck them!" You will cry, "let them watch!" Taking another swig of the tequila, your teeth on my neck, my nails in your back, another achingly quick descent into the mad passion that is the summer night.

But summer ends, dear, and autumn comes. We will be lulled into each other's false sense of security until I see you coming out of our restaurant with a tall blonde, or you see me dashing into the public library with a quick piece of Eurotrash. Words will be said, plates will be thrown, tears will be shed, and one last night of madness before we look at each other and say, "Dear God, if I ever see you again, it will be too soon."