Black dress. I love you. You’re always so game for whatever I want to do. You go with glass, you go with steel, you go with cement and wooden bar stools. You even go with green grass if its cloudy enough out.
You go with champagne and you go with mojitos.
You go with my smile at her most sober and you go with my drunk laugh, that one where I awkwardly tilt my head back in a roll and all the lights look globular.
You go with Nietzsche and you go with Capote and you go with Tarantino and you go with Aristotle.
Woody Allen makes love to you with every film he’s made.
You go with red roses and ruby earrings and ripe cherries.
Daisies. Airy potato chips.
You would go with Venus if nakedness didn’t go better.
You go with love and you go with hate and you go with indifference.
(Oh starry night, save me from the latter.)