We: slap happy post trauma
You: Egg donors. Makers of toast.

There was a summer fling within the margins. I kissed you for the first time twice. Loving alcoholism for a person. Lines of trash. Coke Zero. The stars remain in place. Forsooth, the motherfucker said. We cocked our ears, lively stringing instruments that jazz men created from pure gold. Your eyes endeared me to nothing but my thoughts and oh I drink just as fast as I swim. I make no moves. I've ruled them out past mile markers of this much east. The winds change. Now the stars collide. Hold me if you want to, and don't techno for an answer. Fuck.

The exchange of lobotomy and crumpled bills: change swirling in your drink. I pitch pennies for mannerisms and your giddy obsequiousness. Never call.

Fine - call.

Call every night and tell me your black&white dreams of tooth brushing, breakfast eating, left sock, right sock. Start with the shampoo, your symbolism, and I will throw it amongst children screaming in Walmart. Like subtle starships. Like overwrought mushroom clouds. Like parenthetical hypocrisy and indigenous facial tattoos. This has all played out in my sleep a thousand times before I hit my head on shag carpeting over concrete floors.

Do you love me? Will you at least tell me that?

I wait for your ketchup stained reply, unless you post mark more implications. Return to sender: beeping like a backing up truck. I want to want you back before I want you.

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