levels of it

stubbed toe / during a broken heart— you said pain is pain, offered to kiss both. we nursed the plot of a favorite episode, argued over what constituted foreshadowing. talking to you about the view was mostly talking to myself; you liked cliffs, I liked what they overlooked. on vacation with the lube, you forgot to pack anything else. we ate wasabi from the tube like astronauts. being vegan, you protested animal rights while wearing leather—not ironically. I said nothing, ate a pork bun in your honor. alive with wanting, horny as new hormones, we ordered room service, slept instead, called that a success. our fifties came early— you there before me, always a decade ahead in age, on trends, with grief. neither of us knowing we’d need a language for this back then.