I sign out of Google Hangouts,
because Franco and Eric are arguing
and I have no time for that shit.
I am too old
and too tired
to deal with Brooklyn back-and-forths.
My headphones are broken,
so the drum sound only comes round
every track or blonde girl with a backpack.
I pass parties I would've crashed ten years ago,
but I keep going to find
the rooftop in the village on which we made love.
Broken glass eats my elbows,
I write you-know-what on a wall where
broken hearts used to mend.
Kendra, I am sorry,
and I hope you know that
as I move on strong.