Don’t get stuck.  You move in for a kiss but your lips feel like suburbia.  Your hands caress my neck  but they feel like the stranglehold of a white picket fence, boxing me in.  Your arm hair is like the blades of grass of some goddamn lawn I’m going to have to mow, rub my feet in and say ‘Well, aren’t we keeping up with the Joneses? Those bastards don’t even cut theirs evenly.’ Your eyelashes are like the petals on some fucking flower I’ll be forced to buy and not let die. You move in for round two but the bat between your legs feels like the bat at little league games I’ll have to  feign cheer at while stabbing my leg.  How could I have enjoyed that little explosive shot at the end the first time, but now it feels like you’re trying to impregnate me? Even though that is in no way possible.  You’re falling in love. Ugh, you’re falling in love. Don’t get stuck. Don’t get stuck. Don’t fall in love back. 

You magnify the universe
You’re aiming for the royal scene
Fast luck
TV dreams
Pretty [boy], don’t get stuck

I found myself muttering these lyrics in bed with someone twirling my minimal chest hair–for now–but, manhood, that time where most people start settling and settling down is upon me. Soon my chest, that hand, and my life will be in the thick of it. Shit will have got real. But I’m transnational, a wanderer, a dreamer of epic scenes and most people want to get stuck. They have dreams of far flung places but the cul de sac, well, it sucks them in at the sight of a charming smile attached to an ok-face. I can’t. I can’t get stuck. I can’t fall in love with you. Get your hand off of my goddamn chest.

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