I keep a journal of all the pickup lines you’ve ever given me.
On our first date you said if you were depression I’d be Prozac,
in all seriousness, chin propped on your elbows, the round curve
of your shoulders like two white apples. I wish we’d met in a parallel
universe, one in which dinosaurs still roamed the earth
and meteors came within inches of crashing into our tiny little planet
every second of the day. Which brings me to your second pickup line,
sweetly muttered in the bathroom at an Iron & Wine concert,
your tongue in my ear, I’d do all your laundry.
But I guess that wouldn’t be necessary
because we wouldn’t be wearing that many clothes.
If there were an apocalypse I’d take the cat and you’d get the flashlight,
a few candlesticks for good measure, and several bags full
of canned soap.
Please hide out in my basement.
There’s enough food to last for days, and plenty of Scrabble.
When you brought me to meet your parents, the napkin beneath
my plate said Mom’s a bit stingy, and Dad’s getting old,
but no one could turn their nose up at you.
Two years later I have trouble wading through the mountains
of pickup lines scattered all over the living room floor, like snow
after a blizzard. When I go outside I have to put up my umbrella
to shield myself against the flying notes.
What would I ever do with you?
You’d learn to swim. I’d teach you. I won’t let the sharks get you.
If we ever get in a car crash, I hope I’m the first
to go through the windshield.
You look sweet today. I’ll eat you up.
No no, you don’t need to fill the gas tank up. Fill me up with your kisses.
And the 270th and final one:
Stay.
