I lied to you.

I used to say, “I dream about kissing strangers,”
so I could see a man about a dead metal pan.
And here we are in Ybor, 
where they are something like Hux’s epsilons, 
and I tell you in the midst of my drunken state:

“I lied to you.”

And what a relief! it is to keep hungry for you
and know that I dream about running the fullness
of my mouth over yours, and know that I still want only you.

I love you more than the strangers from St. Petersburg.
I love you more than the hole we left in my middle last night.
I love you more than the minutes I spent in the bathroom stall:
bumping my head onto the door, making a V out of toilet paper,
and flashing my stupid, pretty, craggy teeth through the sliver.

I love you, and that’s always a pleasant surprise.