I hate you.
Damn, I hate you.
But, fuck, you’re handsome in those pants and in that shirt, and well, I raise my glass to you and your, ahem, love.
Because, well, there are trophies and then there are rewards.
And then, there are the simple high-fives.
And I high-five you, ahem, and your love.
Now, get the hell away from me (and my drink.)
/insanity of love and other poets
(Hee. Just kidding. I like you. I even brought her flowers.)
I’m dark, dreary, and hopelessly cheery.