You were my Stu Unger in tank tops and blue jeans. You, with your really bad bleached hair and your sunken dark eyes. Your cheeky smile and your sarcastic laugh. Your Jersey accent and your no bullshit attitude.

The night everyone went to outside bar and we sat in bed with masks on our face watching last years WSOP main on TV and calling outs. You looking at me and saying ‘Fuck, we know our poker.’ You and your Fiji waters. Noodle Bar at the Wynn. God, how I hate how you call Wazuzu Noodle Bar. How do I ever eat at Lotus of Siam ever again without tears in your favorite Thai Beef Salad? 3am Pho at the Quad.

From the moment you 3bet me on the turn with a straight and flush draw in Nola to you telling Pete ‘…and you said no girl would like me and want to be my friend.’ I was yours.

You never let me play pit games and instead made me wait for you to destruct. And I must have been your lucky charm because I never saw you lose.

Ice tea vodkas and two wandering souls who just understood each other without words. We occupied space and time… in every moment, in every comfort we kept finding each other in familiar dark places.

The sides I got to see of you that very few knew sting the most. Red dress to Absinthe. The little girl in us all just wanting to be pretty. Accepted. Cherished. Loved. If the world would stop disappointing your heart then maybe you didn’t need to be so hard.