as I left the can, you wrapped yourself around me and laughed into my hair, like I was four and I’d just told a knock-knock joke at a company picnic. “Adorable!”, you’d exclaimed, saying you’d never heard anyone sing while they pissed. A girl feels special in those moments,
this is why he loves me,
this is why they’d all love me,
this is what I have to offer that only he can see. And you’re sure you’re full of all that sorts of stuffing that’ll make the man tick.
If you’re impressed about me singing on the toilet,
wait til you get a load of me murmuring about all you can eat pasta in my
sleep. Sometimes I walk around with only one
sock. I can’t properly pronounce marsupial. I tap my finger when I’m angry.
This morning I hummed while I arm wrestled the wind out the passenger seat of your car window. You rolled your fist into itself and made crescent moons of purple on your palm, angry Elvis-lipped and full of detest. You rolled the window up at the stop
light and turned on the radio. News. No way to sing along.
I am reminded, crustily,
that this happens to adolescents as well. One day the world is ruffling your moptop, in love with every silly notion that slips out your baby-toothed head,
and then you hit the awkward, ugly years.
Difference is, with this-
with us, I will not come out the other side full-grown and learn-ed. The only thing that’ll change is I won’t have the heart to sing in the bathroom anymore.
Which is too bad, because I really enjoyed it