The Big Leagues.

I call you a liar and say get off my front porch. Somehow, two hours later, your kiss lands on my shoulder. This is a language I speak. I am surprised, that of all things, you are a man who keeps promises? you make so few. We were terrible communicators, tight lipped and at the mercy of our own convictions. You're keeping me up, figurative turns to literal. You say all the wrong things, strung out, pieces flailing. Quit coming over here, just to go mad and fall apart. It's disarming. 

I think I'm starting to get it. You're so god damn mean to yourself. We meet some girl on the patio of some bar in some place in the city. You say she's an old friend. I think that means you fucked, albeit a long time ago. She's nice but she calls me a poor little cotton swaddle or something. You laugh, but you look at me to see if I caught it. Her, calling me a baby. I did, but I let it go. I jump on the back of your bike and we go.

Everyone's always so apt to point that out. They say it like it's an insult and tell me it's a compliment. Maybe I am a baby. But like I said, I don't know you. I just know 42.