You, a peen hammered sculpture of woman, tuned by an athletic & perverse ear both formidable in its endowments & toyish in its tasks, whose shadow could no longer accommodate my pluck & pithiness.
Anticlimaxes flow like sex in a tub brimming with insecurity. That was the last thought in my mind as we fought, you, bare to the hips, & me, only bare, as your words burst like pox behind my eye lids.
“I’ll wake up early, is all.” Drunken calculus flew between us, under-armored bombers, spotlighted, on night raids over Berlin as we closed our eyes & fired shots until the stockpile was spent.
What was I to do with a red box of 2200 bright orange snack crackers? Who could know with 15 beers under their belt? Going out your 2nd story window with them, just to spite you, was not my best idea.
I watched you fuck her; granted we all wanted a piece of Lizelle that year. I never waxed prolific as I did that night, but the problem with having a Crayola heart is that the agreeable colors tend to run out first.
“Quick! Eat all the tangerines before they open the door!” Wednesdays were the best; do you remember those as clearly as I do? Clear as Sunday’s sun breaching Saturday’s tented & rain washed scraps?
