That '50s movie theatre in my mind pulls its thick red curtains up by thick golden chords to show someone else's face, and I can almost feel my breath on his arm bouncing back to me and I wonder who it will be to sew the curtains back together when I'm older and they're threadbare.

Pull on my Romantic red string and watch me unravel; play the same game with me again, play the same movie again, and I'll sit there and munch my bowl of popcorn and yawn and fall asleep with my chin on my chest and rusty nails from the half broken theatre seats sticking up into my palms.

I'll watch you walk out the emergency exit, leaving me pinned, and think about how beautiful your back is. Then the door will close behind you; it will slam suddenly, unexpectedly, as it always does with you, and the gust from the force of its swing will be my last breath?

Sometimes you can't keep what you want.

That seems to be the story of my life.