He loves me,
he says.
He is drunk
with skunk
breath.
I love you.
He stumbles
and mumbles
vodka bubbles.
His timing is a sixth
sense,
but I don't want
inebriated gifts.
I want him and his.
I want his imperfects
and our skin to touch
when we sleep.
You're so good to me.
His gaze is glazed
cake.
And I'm an asshole,
he adds.
His confessions
swing
between us.
A boozed breeze
sings off key.
Do I forgive this?
that man ass hat
sits
lopsided
atop his head
and I dread that his
is his best
attempt.
