“Fuck a Mask, I Want That Ho to Know It’s Me”

There’s boredom in her love,
Which reminds me of everyday things.
Sometimes I’ll think of her.
When I am clipping my fingernails, or taking a shot of whiskey.
Remembering that moment when she cried
After I read her one of my poems.
It was a typical poem
About a guy who fucked a girl.
He told her
“I love you.”
She treated the words
Like it was change handed back to her
From a store clerk.
The irony of her tears is a daunting nostalgia.
But the difference between her and the everyday things,
Is that,
I need the everyday.
I have to keep living, after all.
But memories of her,
I treat like the change
I place in a beggar’s cup.

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