Allergy Season

I want three hundred grooms. I’m sick of flowers. I’m trying to figure out
why we always have to have two of something. Double–knotted shoes.
Alternating scissor kicks. Dos Equis. I don’t always cheat on someone
 but when I do, it’s because I fear being in love. Of double tuxedos. Of
 absent breakfasts, of too-small small talk. I’ve never loved two as a
word, really. Its varied spellings. Its fit too easy on the loveseat. I do better
 in crowded spaces, in ten friends on the roof wet from the rain, in six
of us in a four-person car, looking for pastries. In eleven to a queen size
 bed. I sneeze in pairs, though, one right after another. Two equal
volumes of shock, of full body convulsion. I’m a wet sneezer, I spray
my entire dashboard, leave wet indents in the elbows of shirts. That’s
what I think about love, perhaps. Globules of slime, slowly sliding
from the turn signal. Marks left like decomposed rain. Someone
shaking all that is you, again for measure, then not returning until
allergy season. But I do love to sneeze. Head to wall collisions.
Stuttering, pre-thought words. Everyone turns up to look. I would
like, always, to be that free, in a pair. I would like, on occasion, to
sneeze on your dresser, on your leftover sock on the wood, under
the nook beneath your lampshade. I dream of my friends in a massage
circle, sneezing to our left, a pool brewing to hold us all there at once.

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