I couldn’t help but notice you–the other day–sitting on another man’s bookshelf–with your inveigling eyes feigning refutement and your soft cover recently un-tube topped and naturally bound and shit like that.
It was awkward, and uncomfortable, and also more than slightly unpleasant. Maybe unpleasant’s not the right word that I’m looking for, more like verging on gross. I could tell by the way this new dipshit talked that he’d most recently been into you. The way he’d say ‘ostentation’ instead of vulgar and ‘slightly inebriated’ instead of half way drunk.
I damn near slapped him. He had a nervous way about him and kept sneaking quick spasmodic looks at his crotch, which literally reeked of dried ink and that post browsed glow of brand new vocabulary options.
That’s ok though. Fuck it. In no way did I ever think that I owned you (even though I bet I still have it, I know I still have it, I still have the receipt). You’re free to copulate with, bang, bed boff, conjugate, couple dork, fornicate, have coition, make out with, screw, or share a fruit snack with anyone you want to, as you see fit to do and stuff. But seriously, why him?
Or anyone else for that matter? Damn it. I thought we were serious. Seriously. I thought you were the one, with your provocatively indexed pages and perfectly nippled font and the way we met–the way we met at that little bookstore that didn’t feel like a little bookstore at all, with you by my side it felt more like the hazel eyed offspring of one wild night shared twenty some years ago by a no longer stuffy library and the playboy mansion.
You could’ve left that place with anyone in the entire world but you didn’t, you went home with me–and when we were together that little blue pill of your attentions added three inches to my thick alphabet and then some. But that was a long time ago now, wasn’t it. Maybe I shouldn’t bring up such things right now, I mean I can see that you’re–whatever the hell it is you want to call it–otherwise involved.
That’s fine. I’m seeing somebody new myself actually. Or I was seeing somebody anyway. The prettiest Japanese/English dictionary this world has ever published. But that didn’t work out so well. She got pissed off because I kept pronouncing her bad moods incorrectly. Shit. And also I was still hung up on, I mean she says that I’m still hung up on, so who knows maybe I am still hung up on, that thing that I’m still hung up on.
What’s the word I’m looking for again? I can’t think of it.
Wait. It’s that easy. I see you again and then I remember.
I’m hung up on you.