You can cry on my shoulder anytime, no questions asked
You can use me to train for the Guinness Book of World Records for Lingering
You can take me for a Lou Reed ride in your badass mobile
You can leave inscrutably soft messages on my voice mail anytime you catch yourself feeling lonely, bereft, existentially woebegone
You can be a beautiful mess around me anytime between the hours of 10 a.m. and 10 p.m.
You can shriek, stomp, and stammer, but there you’ve got some competition
You can do yourself a favor and watch Kuch Kuch Hota Hoi three times within two weeks
You can keep sending notes, letters, scribbles, post-its, lists, a jewel jam of genres
You can be incomplete, strangely stuck, untogether, a fumbling work-in-progress, just like about 5 billion others of our species
You can seek refuge amid my persiflage, Crème Brûlée, and recitations of Paul Éluard
You can throw away that mask that flashes: “I’ve Got It All Figured Out”
You can relax when you arrive back home: In the precious present moment
