run away with me

(note the time. Red Bull is a demon, Red Bull is a whore.)

A series of paragraphs, each for someone different.

Run away with me.

Run away with me to London. I've never been there -- you can show me the town. We'll rent Sylvia Plath's old flat, the one where she put her head in the oven. We'll turn the oven into a shrine. Let's work at pubs, get our doctorates in literature, be Zelda and Scott. I'll let you run away when you need to and I'll wait for you to come back.

Run away with me to Key West. It'll be decadent and gaudy. We'll be the most beautiful couple on the island. Whenever we need money, we'll make out in bars for cash. This will not make us whores. I'll never miss your phone calls again, because whenever you need me, you'll blow a conch shell. Let's get curvy on seafood and Coronas, and wear parrot earrings. Let's eat coconuts straight from the trees.

Run away with me to Georgetown. We'll buy a little rowhouse and cover it with ivy. Leave your old life and start a new one with me, please. Every room in the house will have a bookshelf, even the bathrooms. Even the guest bathroom. We'll have dinner parties with too much wine and vegetables from our garden. I'll perform bawdy poetry for you when you're sad and I'll never get tired of holding your hand.

Run away with me to New York. It's not your favorite city, but it's home for oddballs, which you and I both are. We'll find a walkup in an old brownstone and bitch every time we climb the stairs. We'll fill the apartment with misshapen pottery and lurid paintings. Our bookshelves will be equal parts philosophy and trashy 60s gay pulp. We'll never, ever, ever sleep together, because that would be weird and gross.