Saturday night, and no pretty girl to hold my hand, to kiss my lips, to tell me how beautiful I am while she runs her fingers through my hair. I loved a girl once. She had curly hair. We were sixteen, down here. She reached into my chest and tore out my heart, filled it with mozarella, baked it in the oven like a gemisto, and screamed This is love! as she fed me my cheesy heart. I thought she was my soulmate. I was sixteen. She is a Scorpio.