The Orpheum, Ybor City
The trifecta of us—the three of us on the street—through the pubs—
to bars—to clubs—and security lets us know—just stop—we’ll walk to you
“Walk on out of this motherfucker like a bomb was about to go off”
Preston and I—we earlier spoke on a couch, drunk—earnestly—about love and loss—
and the misunderstandings—we had shared—the triggers in our hearts
Back in the motel—we prank call Grant—in California—hope he stews for years
over it—I couldn’t care less—as Romeo whispers in my ear
“And then I believe Benvolio said, ‘Strike, drum.’”
And he did—and it was—the sorriest sight ever—never noticed—my grin—
never noticed—the words drip down her chest as alcoholic dew—the carried moments—
on this night—never left my head—and never will for you
For years—I will write about them—and more—I faked it—but we shared some pot—
one night—a mansion balcony step—we smoked—and wandered—80’s porn—
splintered by foggy liquor cabinets—and Preston wishing he could get his girl back
And he did—on dirty earth—with dirty glasses—poured down our dirty throats—
trigger words—in hearts—to heave teeth—and remembered—not as we had planned—
nor—as we would have—rather believed.
James Blevins 