She writes about me, and I write about her.
That’s the way it works, you see.
She writes about me, and I write about her
and in our obsessive performing schedules we have
it ends up
she reads about me, and I read about her
all over town
Wicker Park, Lincoln Park, Irving Park,
and yes, sometimes, Humboldt Park
she writes about me, and I write about her
and she reads about me, and I read about her
all over town
and the people know
they know that she’s writing about me and I’m writing about her
because they are friends of ours
and the scene is incestuous to begin with
because getting older does not mean getting better
and a larger population does not mean a larger dating pool
they know that she’s writing about me and I’m writing about her
and if they don’t we drop in hints every so often
and they talk
and they giggle
and they say to us
“Hey, didja know she was writing about you last week?”
and
“Hey, didja know he was reading about you over there?”
“And over there?”
“And over there?”
as we hit the dusty trail
of open mics across these big shoulders of ours
and narrowly miss each other
by ten minutes, by five
“God, she was just here, she was just reading something about you”
And sometimes,
sometimes we do end up at the same open mic
where she doesn’t read something about me
and I don’t read something about her
but we still indeed read to each other
Subtle hints, clues
that I wonder if the audience picks up on
“This next piece is about the way one of my ex-lovers made me feel”
“This next piece is about how important my sexuality is to me”
“This next piece is about how I want to be a writer for a living and if you are thinking of getting involved with me you should understand that up front”
“This next piece is about how I got hurt really badly in a relationship not too far in my past and you better fuckin’ pay attention because I don’t want any idle flirtation from you because I’m too weak and frail from this previous one to be able to take something that you might be doing just because you’re bored and not necessarily actually into it”
Subtle hints, clues
that I wonder if the audience picks up on.
And we sit together
and we laugh
and we drink
and we laugh, and we drink, and we drink, and we talk, and we laugh, and we drink, and we talk and we drink and we laugh and we drink and we drink.
And she goes to the bathroom and my friends run over and say, “Wasn’t that piece about... you know, HER? Doesn’t she know?”
And I say, “Of course she knows. She writes about me and I write about her. It’s how we communicate.”
She understands this because
we are two peas in a pod
cast from the same mold
long-lost siblings separated from birth
and a thousand other metaphors, none of which exactly work
And we have talked about this
and we have decided that having sex together would probably be a good thing
and hell, it seems like a foregone conclusion at this point, not really much we can do about it
But still, we can’t make that final leap
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##jjjj~~jjjjShe writes about me, and I write about her.
That’s the way it works, you see.
She writes about me, and I write about her
and in our obsessive performing schedules we have
it ends up
she reads about me, and I read about her
all over town
Wicker Park, Lincoln Park, Irving Park,
and yes, sometimes, Humboldt Park
she writes about me, and I write about her
and she reads about me, and I read about her
all over town
and the people know
they know that she’s writing about me and I’m writing about her
because they are friends of ours
and the scene is incestuous to begin with
because getting older does not mean getting better
and a larger population does not mean a larger dating pool
they know that she’s writing about me and I’m writing about her
and if they don’t we drop in hints every so often
and they talk
and they giggle
and they say to us
“Hey, didja know she was writing about you last week?”
and
“Hey, didja know he was reading about you over there?”
“And over there?”
“And over there?”
as we hit the dusty trail
of open mics across these big shoulders of ours
and narrowly miss each other
by ten minutes, by five
“God, she was just here, she was just reading something about you”
And sometimes,
sometimes we do end up at the same open mic
where she doesn’t read something about me
and I don’t read something about her
but we still indeed read to each other
Subtle hints, clues
that I wonder if the audience picks up on
“This next piece is about the way one of my ex-lovers made me feel”
“This next piece is about how important my sexuality is to me”
“This next piece is about how I want to be a writer for a living and if you are thinking of getting involved with me you should understand that up front”
“This next piece is about how I got hurt really badly in a relationship not too far in my past and you better fuckin’ pay attention because I don’t want any idle flirtation from you because I’m too weak and frail from this previous one to be able to take something that you might be doing just because you’re bored and not necessarily actually into it”
Subtle hints, clues
that I wonder if the audience picks up on.
And we sit together
and we laugh
and we drink
and we laugh, and we drink, and we drink, and we talk, and we laugh, and we drink, and we talk and we drink and we laugh and we drink and we drink.
And she goes to the bathroom and my friends run over and say, “Wasn’t that piece about... you know, HER? Doesn’t she know?”
And I say, “Of course she knows. She writes about me and I write about her. It’s how we communicate.”
She understands this because
we are two peas in a pod
cast from the same mold
long-lost siblings separated from birth
and a thousand other metaphors, none of which exactly work
And we have talked about this
and we have decided that having sex together would probably be a good thing
and hell, it seems like a foregone conclusion at this point, not really much we can do about it
But still, we can’t make that final leap
because we are both deathly afraid of losing that
pea
cast
sibling
muse
and all those other metaphors that didn’t work the first time
And so she writes about me and I write about her
and she reads about me and I read about her
It is our way of dating
It is our way of having sex
And she gives me a ride home
and we sit in her car
and she says how regrettable it is that we have to separate for the night
and so I say not if you come in
and so she says do you want me to come in
and so I say do you want to come in
And we both know we’re going to chicken out
but we’re playing a game to see which of us will do it first
which of course... would be me
but as I’m getting out I see a flash of brilliance in her eyes
like tonight was the night she was waiting for me to not back down
like tonight was the night she was waiting for me to insist on her coming in
And I stop and think about that tonight in my bed
typing in my bed
smoking in my bed
as I continue writing about her
as I know that she continues writing about me
