You asked why I couldn’t make love to you.
You can’t make love to a store that’s not opencan
you imagine a Costco, a Target, a mother blipping Kmart whose
doors were always closed?
Sorry, it’d read. Out of order.
And you’d screw up your nose and scream and man, those glass walls
(thought bullet proof) would shatter and cover the ground, thick and
glossy; like an apology and you’d go skipping in.
I mean, what’s better then 24/7 Kmart? A free 24/7 Kmart.
You’d run around that reasonably priced department store and think
you’ve made it; arrived in your own fucking Narnia.
Probably a little drunk, definitely not sober. Who thinks that when a
Kmart’s walls shatter, it goes unnoticed? Baby, there are no trees here.
There are wagesbut
you’d frolic around anyway, as you do. Eyes and smile wide, strutting
in the young ladies section and throwing garment after garment over
your shoulder. I can just see it now.
You always were a bit of a lunatic, you know? I just wonder how you even
got there (was there an accomplice?)
But back up-
“Who’s the scream?” You ask.
“Who’s the glass?” You ask.
Baby it’s a metaphor and I’m metaphorically meaning that I could never
get you with your guard down.
Screaming and kicking my feet wouldn’t help.
Screaming and kicking my feet wouldn’t help our love (as you reluctantly
I love you, okay?
I don’t know how many lasagnas I need to cook; eggs I need to boil;
mushrooms I need to chop,
hey, you reckon when we recount our love story to our kids we’ll count
time in food?
Kids, it was 306 eggs, 12 lasagnas, 400 mushrooms until your mother
admitted she loved me.
I know what you’re thinking: you eat a lot of fucking eggs.
But is that the problem? (I mean indirectly, or directly)
did you really want sweets? I still remember those Kmart seashell
chocolates, 4 bucks a pop; student wages.
Yeah, you loved that shit. And baby, I love you. I love you 50,000 eggs,
fuck that, I love you a lifetime of chickens (we’d never go hungry. Or lack
I love you,
I love you anyway.