I served you green tea with honey in a Marilyn Monroe coffee mug. She looked dazzlingly Warhola as she approached your chiseled chin. It was the day after, the first night- but certainly not the first time. “Gorgeous”, you said, as an American icon twisted across the screen. I crossed my legs and said it had snowed. You’re buried. There was wine on our breaths, but I slept for hours. You’re back towards me, and mine towards yours, in the exhaustion of excesses. It was not to leave easily, a mind of roses. You brushed the snow off of my car with a broom, and winked at the top of the steps. My heart beat in retrograde with every step you descended.