True Love is Defined by the Lower Intestine.

This afternoon, I woke up beside my boyfriend
In a sweltering, squalid room that reeked of stale beans.
As he turned to me and opened his eyes,
Still bleary with the exhaustion of slumber,
I opened my mouth to tell him how much I adored him.
“Last night was amazing,” I began, and I inhaled,
My breath catching in my throat as I remembered–
The uncharacteristic passion in his embrace,
His wild, unfamiliar desire to impart to me
As much pleasure as I sought to give him
As we made love to the soundtrack of Avatar‘s tedious exposition.

I hoped to describe exactly how I felt about him.
I wanted him to know how much I appreciated his tolerance,
And how every time I was reduced to tears
By my own insecurity, or by an absence of nicotine and liquor,
That to fall into his arms was the only thing that could calm me.
I wanted him to know that as much as I worried about our finances,
As much as we argued about money and our future,
That no sum of cash, no white picket fence,
No windfall of fortune, or 401k
Could ever replace the past three months,
Where we’ve festered together in a tiny, stifling bedroom
Rented for $250 a month from some high school friends.
I wanted him to know that every day since the day he declared his love
With a drunken, incomprehensible 2 AM phone call
Has been the best day of my life,
And if I had to live here forever, in filth and poverty,
I would be perfectly happy so long as he is with me.

As I began to form the words, my longing gaze locked with his own
I was interrupted.
He hefted one buttcheek, and released a long, loud fart;
The bellowing eruction from his bowels
Reeked of sulphur and cheap Tex-Mex.
Before I could say a thing, he began to laugh uproariously,
And although my annoyance was clear, I giggled a little, too.

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