we'll talk later

fresh; I slid my journal into the library hoping to avoid the late fee, silly girl, all books are
black but not all of them are written that way good thing there's a page missing reach in
pull me out and there we were sitting together on the counter blinking into fluorescent library
light her hair escaping her pony tail she was surprised. "is this yours?" hand over heart, into
her chest weaving between ribs skin heart muscle and pearlescent alveoli that's how you
breathe she muttered as I reach deeper. it's

not normal for two strangers but what can I say this little cocksucking lesbian has always
loved a library, it's the spice of words about to be said bursting hot on the very rough tip
of your tongue there are things to be said let's not we'll swallow them and leave them cardamom
spiky rasping the corners of our mouths. yeah, that's why writers are such horny bastards
the promise of something being said is greater than anything your hand could do, it's why
I reach so far, penis envy I guess, if I can't fuck the inside

of your head then what is left for me? my desk is chaos but my cunt is all throb and swell;
pen cell phone passport nipple camera glass hand paper speakers throat iPod wrist ankle
calf breast wait, distraction. the rest of it is sterile, light on car windows and glaring down
cafe walls I had something to say she breathes behind my ear no words yet but I get her
meaning that's what makes me skilled you don't say I'll get it, we'll watch swallows over the
creek, we'll talk later.