The Year of the Buffalo

The Year of the Buffalo

I'm in love with a braless girl who ordered her chicken plain
"No buffalo sauce please," while starring at the messup with total disgust

I love a girl who has a strict schedule for her sex life, constantly changing out sex partners like dirty socks, to prevent a monotonous marriage like pattern

I'm in love with a girl who tells me to drink, no orders; She's not a submissive lover.
"Ten Shots of rum Ash. Tonight you drink."

She tells me I'm beautiful without ever running her supple lips. Those lips still a stranger which perhaps someday I'll kiss.

Dappled and fucked, I love her still. Fucked (befuddled)--her adapted definition standing for her incurable disposition, her tragic lack in motivation, her current cluelessness about her life, friends, family and character.

I love a girl who sports many coats throughout the day. One the color of lacy vibrant sex, one the sad red of a jilted lover, one the color white of her potential tabula rasa, another coat dark like the ashes burnt from her former life and that matches the dark night she lives in. Her lightest coat is elegant like Jackie O and in reality is no coat at all. The coat she wears when she sleeps is coverless, furless, threadless; it is bare, bold and soft.

I'm in love with my organized partier, one I can't help but sympathize with her compulsion to stay busy, deathly afraid to stop moving like a bone fish fearful of its final sandy sleep.

I'm in love with a frazzled haired, androgenous looking girl who emerges occasionally, an air deprived soul, who occasionally finds peace, stretching elongated across the bed and discussing the poetic lyrics of the infamous Sufjan Stevens.

In in love mostly with what she lacks. No future, incalcuable confusion--okay.
She is love that layers and strips, forcing you to try on new clothes in the hopes that you'll find the right dress.

She, the dark night of my soul, and she, my candidate for hero. Cloaked tragesty, mighty majesty.