The Spiderman is Having Us for Dinner Tonight.

You really are too damn beautiful when you lie to me. Even your fingernails look like paper.

But I still drink it all in, like Alice breathes in the Cheshire cat's magenta painted voice.
And sometimes I just want to eat you up, you fragile little thing.

The Spiderman is having us both for dinner tonight, you know. Robert Smith whispered it to me across the universe and a couple years and the groupies who look more like The Cure than The Cure looks like The Cure. P.S. We won't be able to watch the sunset tomorrow at the old folks' home like we promised George. Because this night is the last one.

And for our last night, we can write letters to our lost loves in crayon and colored marker.

We can steal innocence from Walmart along with a pack of gum.

And we can send our iPhones down the river along with our left shoes and dead plants.

We can shower off the regret and watch it as it shyly heads down the drain... But we'll still regret the night we didn't go to that concert, and we could have.

And you still might pray that you didn't date that man who taught you what a cig stub burned into your forearm smells like. The man who made you question if you should really forgive seven times seventy and if Jesus was right about everything he said in that book you keep on your bedside table.

We can pretend we got wise and write an advice column for the local paper.

Or cross off everything on our bucket list even if we haven't completed it yet. To make ourselves feel like we lived life right and we didn't beckon death until the clock threatened to strike midnight in the ballroom.

We can knit like old ladies in movies to make ourselves feel old. Or we can cry about how young we think we are and how the wrinkles crept up on us. How we still thought we were dressing in the latest fashions until I looked at the latest issue of Vogue in March.

We can run until our hearts race each other down the block alongside us.

We can lie down in the wet grass, legs touching, and listen to the cries of the dead moths which you drowned in the sink. Until we feel all the emotions we never wanted to. You killer.

We can count down the minutes like New Year's Eve and pretend.

We can rewrite our history and make up new first kiss stories thousands of miles away. Your first kiss was on the Eiffel tower with the French swim instructor. Remember? The one we all had crushes on as thirteen-year-olds before we knew he was gay. You lucky duck.

Laugh like life was not as misunderstood as she carried on, because she wasn't.

Breathe memories instead of oxygen.

Or we can pretend that we'll live forever and that we'll see that obnoxious dog of yours barking his goddamn head off when the mailman stops by tomorrow.

I like the last one.