watching her red lips from across the bar, referencing some obscure academic mythology i care nothing about, her fingers hold the bottle like a paper its footnotes. maybe i should stop thinking about her taste on my lips, her flesh beneath my fingertips. maybe i should put time into it, unraveling her as a poem, close reading of her hips and her inner thighs, almost like the endless lines of Howl i keep reciting in my head. i swear Eliot would be proud of me.
overly facetious. lack of secondary study and my restrain. pushing the structural analysis of her spine to the limit, nearing the absurdity.
my lust for her is like Longenbach
allow me to be like Walt, perfectly vulgar.
STRAIGHT TO THE POINT: i admit defeat.
i want to be inside you.