i did what i do best (making sounds when fingers are run against [read: punched]), you do everything just perfect (as if you've never seen it before),
"different textiles create such different feelings!" ¹
¹ my dying thoughts through heat stroke as we stage act 2 of our admittedly flawed but well intentioned reenactment of middle school homoeroticisms: i wonder to myself how these underwear could possibly be comfortable as i dig my palm into her cock,
across her stomach was like first snow
light catching on untouched expanse of pale
and soft,
i saw your curls stick to a face plunged up and down in sweat, savory taste, a weight against you well trained.
there was no memory here, i was spared the rod if for just a moment:
seeing your eyes lock, defocus, close, my hand on your sacrificed calf.
she (other) asks me if i want to bleed for her. we all take great delight in killing me. killing me. (look at me quivering saying this and say you feel different, and ill show you...)
i knew i loved you before and i know i love you now, precious lamb without blemish, to be shorn with a gentle, firm grasp at the wrist.
in the last day we create definitions for words no one has ever said and try to be on our best behavior. finding myself at her (other) doorstep barely there,
(but not alone [and never alone
on the last day we created meanings, if not new, then new to us; and if not new to us, then i dont fuckin know man. fuck you.
