I thought Rome was hot in June

I didn’t know anything

I keep making mistakes.

I go downstairs where it’s cooler

And I’m still dripping sweat

All I want to do is hug an iceberg.

Who cares about art.

At four in the morning I left my loft bed

And lay on the floor

Thinking about how sad it is

That he’s in love with her.

It feels wrong somehow.

I don’t care that they’re having kinky sex

But the poems he writes about her

Are good.

I was his poetic gym

I deserve a percentage

At the very least.