Cowgirl prevails
and the new year's official.
I left a fresh roll on the counter
but she doesn't see it
and digs under the bathroom sink.
A glass of water is offered and accepted.
Clothes go back on shamelessly.

I hear her sigh
as she descends
my stairwell
both of us confused
as to our intentions.
The deadbolt slams home
keeping me in
more than them out.

It takes an extra blow
to extinguish the candle
on my night stand.
I lay in the dark
staring straight
and scratch myself.
So this is twenty-nine:
more of the same, but closer
to the inevitable.
I dislike it already.

And if you want the absolute
God's honest
Scout's honor truth
I'll give it to you:
I don't want to meet anyone.
I'm tired of explaining myself.
Even those who understood
don't get me anymore.
I'm toward the top of that list.

More staring.
More scratching.
I fall asleep to the intangible.

Michael, row the boat ashore.
We're all tired of your shit.

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