All That’s Real For Me

Monroe and Elvis

All that’s real for me is Marilyn and Jesus.

And rocks in your scotch when you read my secrets. And the smell of vodka, gin, rum and tequila of your breath as we sat and talked for hours about a writer you loved whose name I couldn’t remember because your green eyes had turned my brain off. And your firework laughs when the bartender came to our table and surprised us with his excellent French. And bottle of beer in our hands when we sat on your balcony watching an old couple holding hands helping each other walking down the stairs.

All that’s real for me is Gili islands beaches.

And our promises not to hurt each other.

And a glass of pineapple juice I shared with you in a Reggae bar that oddly played I Wanna Hold Your Hands while the sun was going down. And the stars. And the fucking stars, honey. And bicycles we rented on which we talked about our dream houses. And how you told a waiter we’d been married for four years and I couldn’t even remember what your middle name was. And the sands on our skins. And the tangent universe you loved. And how my fingers run through your hair the almost-blonde color I couldn’t resist. And that Piledriver Waltz when I lost myself in your gaze before the gravity united our mouths.

All that’s real for me is Clarence and Alabama.

And how we spelled Clarence. And Alabama. And Elvis’ voice in your phone. And our Heartbreak Hotel. And the sun on your inked skin. And how you hit me and how it felt like a true love. And how you told me to shut up, “I got this” when I begged a kiss. And Hans Zimmer in our favorite movie. And my best friend’s words for me as we stared at the city’s traffic from a rooftop after he saw us having our last hug. How I said “I’m fine”. How I might not be. And the airport that has taken you. And the reason for airports. And the other reason for goodbyes.

All that’s real for me is Halloween and Jesus.

Jumping off the bridges.

Chandeliers and seizures, honey.

I wanna fly. I wanna fly. I wanna fly..