Forget
how
good his butt looks in Levi’s,
his
sneaky grin, those blue eyes,
the way
he traces your cheek
as you
fall asleep.
He’ll
always need a ride
and a
20 to carry ‘til payday.
He’ll
eat all your groceries
then
spill beer on the couch.
He can
recite the line-up of the ’91 World Series
but
he’ll forget your birthday.
He
won’t walk the dog
but one
spitting cold December night
when
you return from the trip,
finally
stop shivering, and doze—
he’ll
wake you worrying
what
would happen to his career
if his
web browsing history were
published
online.
When
you snap that his porn preferences
don’t
interest anyone, least of all you,
he’ll just
roll over and sigh
like you let him down.
That
great job he landed—
personality
issues with the boss.
He’ll
quit the day after
you
make the non-refundable
deposit
on your cruise.
Oh my
God, I know his kisses
eat you
alive
and
when his fingers dig deep
into
that tender spot in the middle
of your
back it’s so good
you
could purr—
But
no! Don’t fall for it.
He’ll
waste a year of your life
that
you’ll never get back.
He
pronounces Las Vegas, “Las Veggis.”
Don’t
overlook that.
He’ll
keep doing it.
You’re
too smart for a man that dumb.
Shawna
Mayer