I’m the girl who knows he’s capable of poetry, because like I said, there are things I just know. I’m the one who could give him that old-fashioned song title of a thing called Devotion and True Love (However Complicated), if he ever gave a girl like me a second glace. I’m the less-than-five-minute girlfriend who for one too-brief kiss fantasized about ditching this joint with him, going all the way punk with him at a ** jazz club in the Village or something. Maybe I would have treated him to borscht at Veselka at five in the morning, maybe I would have walked along Battery Park with him at sunrise, holding his hand, knowing I would become the one who would believe in him. I would tell him, I heard you play, I’ve read you poetry, not that crap your band just performed, but those love letters and songs you wrote for Tris. I know what you’re capable of and it’s certainly more than being a bassist in an average queercore band – you’re better than that; and dude, having a drummer, it’s like key, you ** need one. I would be equipment ** for him every night, no complaints.

That is one of the most kick **-smile producing feelings in the world.

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