The Journalist (Climax)

Riding on fleeting summer passions
and minds and distances spectacular,

we happened upon our happenstance
aptitude to smile at one another

and hours of learning our otherselves:
pickuptruck vacations and midnight laughter.

"I like when you call me darling." at two a.m.
She woke me up, but I fell back smiling.

And the number of times that
I would call her darling would

dissipate from letmecountthewaysish
to onmyfingersandtoes to notatall

as her knowing me focused hesitantly on
my gratuitous deficits and subtle surplus.

That I am entirely literate, but that that
comes with an equally unabridged ego.

That I know who I am when I am alone,
but don't__when I'm with everyone else.

That I am covered in lust, but still
find time to bathe in romance.

So she wrote me to avoid me when I
became an asshole. Quick and cutting,

"Okay. You can go now." An 'Ineverwant-
toseeyouagain' schtick and kitsch. We'll see.