Bro,

Your top three buttons are lazily unfastened,
revealing that burly tuft of black chest hair.

One motion, succinct: ball in cup.

But when I go for the chest bump,
you turn away. What is different?
What has changed?

Are we not the same two bros
who just last week shared a few PBRs
over a couple few episodes of Two and A Half Men?

Are we not the same two bros
who share answers on Econ psets?
Must I watch Khan Academy videos alone?

You were the Paul Ryan to my Mitt Romney,
I was the Bean Boots to your Barbour.

What are we now, but two separate bros,
two separate bodies, in two separate polos.

No homo, Carson

Saturday night. Your room.
I watch as you go—
Mouth to bong
Lighter to bowl

As you take a huge rip.
(you barely even coughed. that shit was sick.)

But
before you pass the bong
to the dude by your side,
some smoke escapes- leaving just its scent
as a relic of its presence.

What are we but two points in time,
ever expanding,
ever separating?

Is the trajectory of the pong ball
into my cup,
or will it hit the rim
and bounce off the table?

Your smile no longer emerges
like it once did
when you see me at late meal.

You are no longer the muse
that I cherished
on long walks to Prospect.

Plus, I’ve seen you hanging out with Kyle.
That kid’s a dick you know I hate him.

No homo, Ben