i can count him on one hand

i don't like to call it love, just
because the little hand jacks it to the other side of the clock
way faster than normal
when we only have two hours before 'real' bedtime
this time
and, just because
we pick the same bloody songs at random                
doesn't mean we're on the same wavelength
[even though that was one obscure little song for him to lift
out of the whole collection, and the other eight,
those could have been coincidence.]
 
and it could have been grand, the idea of us
if i believed i was all that different from the other
three hundred and forty-six girls he's shagged on a whim
but
really, now.
i've only had one guy.
 
and if i added up the thirty-two times i've watched sparkles  
tell me a half-truth
under the impression that i believe everything
that floats off his bi-lingual, lullaby lips
plus
his six core rules
only three of which have been revealed
plus
the two times i've seen jealousy squint, thinking very hard
about sending a man out of my pub by the throat
plus the forty-nine nights
he usurped the conversation
with sagas of blitzes, bitches, babes and sea
(approximately, five stories times two)
plus
one lost love-of-his-life-bff
who wants to meet me
probably to make sure i'm good enough
 
i would still have a man who held his heart to my chest
and meant it.