How’ve yu bn?
When you texted last night. Memories. Your face. My arms. A kiss and a sigh. The images flooded my mind. By 3 a.m. I wanted to call you. Then say what? That I miss that voice? That text. That was our first ‘communication’ after 3 years and probably the last. Such brief, meaningless text. Trust me, I didn’t sleep very well. I’m such a sentimentalist. Looking for meanings and clues in everything.
If by ‘Hae’ you meant how I was doing; whether I’m married; whether I’m still mad that you married my (best) friend (I know you did it out of revenge. Be careful who we use to hurt our ex – they may end up with us for life; like taking a meagre job hoping for our big break then it ends up being our main grind for years. Anyway…); whether my Australian Visa got approved; whether I am rich now; the answer is: no. No. No. No. All I do is write poetry for a living. By a living I mean finding purpose in life. Some people make millions of dollars from an App, I make enough to buy me 2 cigarettes, 2 beers and a note pad. Enough muse just to write another prose.
If by “How’ve yu bn?” you meant if I still miss you; if I recall you biting my chest when I broke your hymen; if I wish you were here when it rains; if I still have the selfies of us goofing outside Sam’s night club; if I ever truly loved another girl/woman again; if I still shudder when I sit next to your mom in a bus on my way to town, recalling the day she came with cops ’cause we were too young to date; if sometimes I jerk off at the memory of your thighs and tits and stretchmarks and neck; if I stalk you on Facebook once a year; if I regret cheating on you and slapping you when I saw that text; the answer is: no. Yes. No. No. YES! Yes. Pass. No. Yes.
If by “Kul” you meant you moved on and you are happily married and you have a beautiful son who smiles like that ugly boy you chose over me and you won’t even attend my funeral incase I die first and you just wanted to find out if I still care and you hope I’m miserable because I don’t have you, I want to let you know from the the bottom of my heart that I sincerely don’t give a fuck.
If by “K” you meant fine nigga, this conversation is heading nowhere or to prove to me that you still don’t care about grammar or you are still that silly girl that cried when I raised my voice or you texted me at 11 a.m. because you were bored, I get the point. If the guy you pretend to love is cheating on you or he can’t hit that snatch like I used to and I’m the one who can curl those manicured toe-nails and make your cheek-bones glow in the morning, well, I might consider that because I never say no to free sex. And money. And free beer.
Wait, am I wasting my breath fanning a dead flame here? Am I overreacting like you used to say?