Karma with a catch

You’re bony.

So thin, so lanky, so very, very, thin.

You’ve got long fingers, and long and hands, and goodness, am I glad it’s you that I’m here with.

Here in this quiet backyard, with our acoustic guitars.

Our guitars with their broken spines, caving in on themselves, sagging strings, completely fucked intonation.

They’re works of art, just like the bony shoulders that are jutting so far out of that sleeveless shirt of yours.

I like those sleeveless shirts, Ryan.

“Fucking pen isn’t working.” You mutter. I nod, looking around for another pen that most likely won’t work.

Sorry, sugar.

I’m not one for pet names, but I like that one for you.

I mean, you’re not very sweet, and you don’t exactly taste pleasant, but I like that one for you, nonetheless.

--

It’s April, not sure what day, Brendon’s birthday is right around the corner, or maybe we already missed it, or maybe today is his birthday; I dunno.

April 2010, and we’re walking through a Wal-Mart, looking for pens.

And I guess we made it, because we’re not dirt poor, and we’re not begging for second chances; yeah. We made it.

Except our veins aren’t so young when they’re full of drugs, and lies, and chemicals, and love.

Ryan, sugar, baby, we should know by now that love is a dangerous thing to fuck with; it’s like, don’t mix bleach and Mr. Clean; don’t mix love and friendship. We should know that by now, baby.

The pet names are piling up.

--

So I guess we bought some pens, “lavender,” you said, “because it’s an Easter color.”

You and I both know that’s not the reason.

We bought some pens, and a birthday card for Brendon, and some plastic eggs that you said we’d hide some drugs in, and on Easter we’d get high and go look for them. I thought it sounded good.

Ryan, sugar, baby, darling, you’re a genius.

--

The candle flickered out about an hour ago, but we’re still sitting in your backyard at four in the morning strumming on our guitars.

You’re wearing another sleeveless shirt, and I’m staring at your long fingers, the long fingers that keep me awake at night, and you’re singing low, and I’m thinking about singing, and then my thoughts are turned to actions when you say “Jon, open your mouth and fucking sing.”

Ryan, sugar, baby, darling, sweetheart, I’d do anything you told me to.

--

We’re drunk, five in the morning, the sun is rising, Easter day, you’ve got a joint to your lips, and I’ve got my hands on your hips, and there are lips on lips, and I’m rhyming intentionally because it feels romantic.

We’re dancing in your backyard, dancing awkwardly while old Beatle’s 33’s are playing loud from your kitchen window.

We all live in a yellow submarine, it’s playing so loud, and your practically screaming the lyrics as you twist your hips in my hands.

Ryan, sugar, baby, darling, sweetheart, angel, you don’t have any flaws.

But it still hurts when you stop dancing, and push my hands off your hips.

It still hurts when you run over to your backdoor where Brendon is standing, smiling big, and you fling yourself on him, his arms wrap around your tiny, tiny, tiny waist.

Ryan, sugar, baby, darling, sweetheart, angel, I love you anyways.