I’ve found myself going to bars with people I don’t like.  
Smoking cigarettes outside for supposed mouth feel. 
Drinking not enough to get properly drunk.  
Home before midnight in my boxers and socks,  
staring at the ceiling. Watching romcoms about strangers  
meeting on planes and trains, things far away from here.  
When I think about sex—well, younger-me sex— 
it’s like describing a favorite television episode for someone 
who’s never seen it. If I happen to talk to you at a bar,  
our conversation choices will be mediocre: a): my peers  
write erotic poems, whereas I continuously write about my dead  
parents (which’ll answer your follow-up question  
about what they do for work). b): a strange number of people 
have taken to telling me I’ve been in their dreams,  
but all we end up doing is something like eating at a coffeeshop.  
c): I imagine friends naked, but it does nothing for me.  
d): my poetry was once described as “fuckable,”  
by the same person who told me to avoid mentioning  
that I write poetry when flirting with women.  
And I still haven’t asked what your favorite color is.  
Sometimes, I just want to be devoured in a you-break- 
at-least-one-object-tear-holes-in-clothing-sweaty- 
and-gross-air-a-room-out-for-a-day kind of devoured.  
There was an episode with a lacy thing, but tonight,  
you’ll go home, and I’ll go home alone. Underneath 
a popcorn ceiling, I’ll light up a cigarette and let it idle. 
And just like that, the room goes dark.