CARPE DIEM
You won’t live
long enough to see
who will win the next
election, the blood
clot deep within
your artery breaking
free. You and I
won’t make it to
those island dunes
we planned on
getting lost in—
all the money
gone. I tried
to tell you not to
worry about if
the per diem
would be enough
to cover everything
we had in mind.
I tried insisting
it was time for us
to splurge, go
ahead and come
on my chest!
I said, this is close
as we’re going
to get to play now,
pay later. You
mumbled something
about desiring and
resisting, resisting
and desiring,
thanking me for
breaking the cycle,
your cum drying
on my face that I
refused to wash off
as we lay there
stunned, the TV on
with the sound off.
Forget about where
the remote ended
up. Forget about
how much room
service was going
to cost us after being
locked up for five
whole days, a do not
disturb sign hanging
on the other side
of a boutique hotel door
undisturbed. So what
if you ultimately
lost your kid or if I
lost my job. So what
if our carefully guarded
names were nothing more
than shit by the time
we walked out
of there smelling like
French-milled soap,
even sneaking out
an extra bar
from the undocumented
worker’s cart when
she had turned a blind
eye. Forget about
leaving any kind of
decent tip when we
had clearly outstayed
our welcome.
Nor does it matter
whose name we chose
to register under,
smart enough to pay
cash, leave no paper
trail behind for
the resentment patrol
to find. If we had to
do it all over
again is not even
a question. Maybe
we were incredibly
selfish, stupid to
think we’d get away
with any of it,
smart phone discarded
under the bed
meaning one of us
would eventually have to
go back and answer
those messages
and texts that kept on
coming. Even you
would’ve agreed
things had gone on
for far too long.
