A BOY WHO WASN’T NAMED PETER TOLD ME HE LOVED ME DURING THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN, THEN AFTER WE BROKE UP, WE WATCHED THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN 2 AND GWEN STACY DIED.
Peter Parker came to me in a dream the other day,
but it wasn’t the clean-cut Tobey Maguire-looking one
and I wasn’t a redheaded Kirsten Dunst caught in the rain.
It was the Andrew Garfield average-boy dreamboat Parker
with the brown wispy hair that sits as if he’s standing above an air vent
and a blonde Gwen Stacy and her arm slung around his neck,
but Gwen Stacy wasn’t being played by Emma Stone and I wasn’t Emma Stone
and both Gwen and Peter were dressed like they were in their punk rock phase of life,
and it was all rather confusing, seeing them there. They were sitting in my living room.
They were sitting on my corduroy couch smoking cigarettes
and ashing into the glass ashtray on the coffee table.
It’s shaped like a heart (the ashtray, not the coffee table), if that at all matters.
I feel like it does matter; after all, Peter Parker was the love of my life,
and there he was wearing this blonde chick like a scarf and smoking cigarettes.
And then they started smoking the same cigarette and I knew it was all over.
Peter Parker hadn’t come to tell me he loved me
but to show me how he loved someone else.
He’d hold the cigarette up to her mouth and she’d lean in, and I saw the look on her face.
Her eyes were closed, her face quiet and smug like a smudge on a windowpane.
She found someone who would save her and from the greatest evil of all –
that feeling of falling with only the ground beneath you.