Go Home, It's After Midnight

If I could kiss her how some men have kissed me, without thinking of

the repercussions, nor the empty drunkenness of the night.

Not fearing the smell of American Spirits on the breath nor the

picnic tables full of gamblers on the cusp of a fight.

If I could kiss her with the narcissist’s mind. 

Not thinking of what comes after 

nor asking if she will remember our moment fondly. 

Not caring if the answer is “no,” and why?

Oh, if I could kiss her the way that you kissed me

that night— she would call me a fool. 

And God knows, she would be right.