"I'm late." Is the text I send. The usual one. Again and again. I don't think I've been on time for anything. Not even my birth. Boy, that must have hurt. I ponder on how much I really owe my mama as my hands continue to wander. Touching every garment in my closet. Judging piece by piece. Ripping my self-esteem apart in the mix. I fall on my bed as a casualty in this war of love. Getting dressed for the one I'm thinking of. But this date, the one that I continue to be very late, isn't the one I'm thinking of. What's a first date if it's not a poetry slam Or jam Or spoken word Or library Or some other literary digest where you overfill yourself on life. I jump into my jeans as I imagine the words whisking me away to a magical place. That's probably the only date that I'd never be late. The first date of my dreams is the one where it seems as though I'll be known in the streets more than the sheets. "There s...
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