Thursday, September 20, 2012


I can’t think. Being with him was like a puppet show. Our papier-mâché heads bouncing off one another making contusions and craters. The track-lights turned to the bed. Being with you is like water, like honey in a bowl, the light refracting around the waves or the slow moving pours. You’re clouding the walls of my mind with breathy-fog and I can’t see out. I can’t think.

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