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I get off the bed, sucking your cum off my fingers as I go to the refrigerator for another beer. You always get me Corona and I open one with the orange, cracked lighter in the pocket of my dirty jeans. I'm wearing a white t-shirt as always and you're laying back on the bed looking sexy in that black wifebeater you wear sometimes when I come over. I remember back when we were seventeen it was hard enough for me to come over to your house. Bus schedules and my mom, begging, negotiating, running. A year later I'm driving over half of California, flicking cigarettes onto the shoulder of highway 101, drunk by San Francisco just to kiss you, fuck you, pass out drunk and snore into your hair on the futon in the living room of your apartment. You said you can't believe we've been sleeping with each other for a year. So much has changed. You've lost weight, my hair that used to be so short falls in thick waves over your face as I lie on top of you and kiss your neck, I used to be such a fucking asshole jerk and treat you like shit and now I cry on the phone, I'll follow you to Portland. I would pack up and leave, the boys with fake IDs, the Beatles on repeat, you're asking me will my love grow, I don't know, you're putting all your faith in Oregon and none in me. In the mornings you make me eggs while I wrap my arms around your waist and smell your hair. I like the way your jeans hang off your hips. I want to ask you Lennon or McCartney and I want you to say Harrison. A car waits downtown to take me back up north but I'll be back. I'm through with control.
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