Redo

 Tomorrow, I will wake up pinned between a rickety bed and a cold, cylinder block wall. My paint-splattered, navy and gold FWBBC shirt will still fit my 20 year old frame. I will wear my flamingo shorts that show off my brown, toned thighs. I will look into the mirror, satisfied. I will pull my hair back and throw on my running shorts. From Richland to Cherokee I will listen to Ben Rector's new album "Into the Morning," and fantasize about the way you taste like mint and Earl Gray.

 I will not fuck it up this time.

 When you press your chest against me in the backseat of my fogged up,Volkswagen beetle, I will search for your pulse; inhale, hold my breath, wait and slow to the rhythm of you. I will unzip my chocolate covered cherry NorthFace backpack and unpack wine and cheese for our picnic.
 You will be in my mouth. You will be in my chest. You will be in be in my bloodstream and my brain.
 As you sip on Pinot Noir, I will sip on you. My desperate, dry-throated, Mohave desert will drink you up. Streams of you will course through my veins until tiny trees erupt from the surface of my wrists with sinful fruits, and saved fruits, and passionate apples with arsenic seeds. We will be pieces of poetry carved into trees whose necks bend into arches. In the spring we will be married beneath them.

 And I will be your wife.

 Tomorrow, I will wake up
 And God will be merciful.
         God will be this merciful.
 God will be 2010 merciful.

 I will not fuck it up this time.