Impressionist Whaling

A single bite to the back of the neck will bring your limp body down fast, pulse beating faintly like sleet on the road near your parents’ house where we were last night, clutching the radio knobs like lost relics, lit by lcds, shaped like skeletons, a single bite to the right place to question this consciousness which was just thrust upon us. I did not ask to think; I did not wish to love. Windows watch fuck sessions while ipod backed bands filter over body-claimed carpeted land. If anything, neighbors would hear us, not see. If anything, it’d be you. They’d never hear me. Afterwards smoking silent cigarettes I will let my exhales be the way I admit that though we are not doing anything, I still liked it I like you I know what I mean. I could get lost in your cotton pillows, dreaming of you while you’re just getting home, call it convenience so neither’s alone but I won’t call it love because I don’t know much about things like that I have never, I can’t. I just want the empires of carpeted land that we stretch ourselves over, the traffic lights change. You looked like a goddess, asleep where you lay on the pillows of sleet and hale and rain. And I want to worship again and again.

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~ by perfectionatrix on January 16, 2010.

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