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write something for me, darling.

write me like one of your fancy girls
all glowing and sinning in my gown.
write me a beautiful scene
in an italian countryside
with you and we're both just in the best of shape.

write me at night under the lamplight
where you can barely make out
the outline of my face,
but you see the lamplight in my eyes
and for once you wonder
what's behind that twinkle.

oh but darling just write me
in anger when i can't meet your needs
and you blame yourself,
throwing your possessions all about
and tearing your clothes off
ripping me apart asking why oh why not
couldn't i have just been faithful?
but you know she never burned me
like you do.
won't you write that.

don't you write me darling.
don't you dare put us on a boat
in the middle of a sea
ready to capsize as the rogues pass,
sloshing and tossing us about.
don't you take me below deck
and remind me that jesus h. christ
is [where oh where don't we both know]
... and yet i've forgotten.
it's been so long.
i'm hardly adjusting to the altitude, you know.
not to mention the wine.

won't you write me a philosoph-
checking and correcting and spiritually connecting
until i throw my manifesto into the fire place,
and in your face, your blazing face,
that dances as the flames charr and erase
the passionate loss and cherubim embrace-
doll, what does your skin feel like these days?
oh lovely, write it for me. write it for me.

write me for it.
right me for it.

i'd like to be erased, thus:
know-it-all that i've become!
unwittingly writing with my two left feet
and my two left thumbs.
[cough... sputter... shoulder glance.]
i have wined and dined myself again, dear.
no thanks to your writing.
it's just black now, and i've no idea what's to come.

— The End —