L’Oreal Paris

A poem

I’ve waited so long there’s no wondering what to say to you, sitting in a pizza place across from you, having a pizza with you, heaven having its bivouac with sugar, my tart lemon, some water for us, salad, and the stories come out like a surrender to hiccups, forgiving, gentle, tender.

I’ll tell you about the day I read White Teeth on the waterfront, Marlon, dear, with canteloupes, Persian cats, whatever you like, whomever you love on Twitter. I can tell it’s okay, and it stays as it is, and being okay is more than this, okay.

Whenever I’m missing you, and at times I’m missing you like I haven’t ever missed you. I’m writing you stories about L’oreal Paris, so good for your skin it comes in SPF, doesn’t hurt your wallet, and actually works, and you don’t know it but the protagonists resemble everyone you’ve ever known. They play Gin Rummy and make bets with things like their favorite hats; they run out of money, they cry in bathtubs; they love soccer, eat vegetables.

I’ll write you any story because my stories are vegetables, because my stories are for you and I’ll write and say words and you will or won’t eat them you can throw them in the garbage for all I care because there’s no choice in this life except for one, this one, besides how you care for your skin, or who you tell about what books you read and what animals you know, there’s no choice in this life except for one, this one, remember it, it can be so damn easy, you are either decent or you’re not.