Words > Numbers
So it’s been about 74 minutes since I last saw you.
If we want to be approximate, it would be about 74 minutes and 28.9 seconds,
But who’s really counting,
because you can’t place a number on
the precise amount of time that flashes by when
mornings soaked in sunshine and dust silence my alarm clock,
when all I’m really counting is all 321 pores weathered across your cheeks
and how much of my lipstick has soaked into them
from the drunken stupor that occurred 202 minutes and 48 seconds ago.
If you want a precise amount, it’s about 0.13 ounces of fish scales and burgundy dye,
fortunately for me that’s actually convenient because the hue of your skin
masks my previous inhibitions of 2am intimacy
and its stepcousin named love.
See I never was one for affection,
for holding hands in public and being a conveyor of some form of misconstrued thug passion
because the only gangster love I knew
was the one that locked lips with fake names and deleted messages.
You can’t measure how much glass shatters when the facade is unraveled
and the fool in the game weighs in at 125 pounds,
equating to 2,000 ounces aka 50 bottles of malt liquor 40s begging to
ease its way into my system of systematic confessions
drawn from the insecure nights he would slip out of my house and tell me,
“Pops expects me home in the morning. I don’t want him asking questions.”
Pile on the excuses, I counted about 320 of them,
but 600 miles later, I dumped them off somewhere in-between
and picked up forgotten pieces that I found at the bottom of my suitcases.
It took 64 days and 65 nights to break down the walls around me to let love in
and to confront the once unfamiliar face that was ripped down from the “wanted” posters looking for a boyfriend.
2-step into the right direction and plant a whisper in the ear on the back bar patio
and a foreign concept became domestic
and emotions that made me sick to my stomach are now stuck somewhere
underneath my ribcage and wedged between my chest, kicking in asthmatics
that I thought I had outgrown but really
it was just me trying to catch my breath after you took it out right from under me.
Latching onto me with the kind of thug passion that doesn’t come in 375 milliliters of light pink bottles of shrouded crystal mixed with champagne lights
but more so the kind that inebriates the taste buds of my entire body
and leave me feeling like the kind of thug that doesn’t need numerals
to measure the temperature of the fire you got burning inside of me.
The only numbers I need are to measure a few things:
the number of good morning kisses you’ll plant on me
the number of bowls you’ll smoke with me
how many grenades you’ll throw back with me
how many steps you’ll take next to me
and I can only hope those numbers remain infinite.