i have your
twin wrists
to graze upon.   like the thin blonde hairs teasing the air- waiting to be
burnt up
in
the
over-strong sun. i'd like to polish you off, the way the splinters on the
porch
find my heels.

i'd like to get some feedback
here.

you know i can't ride a bike.

you bleed on the sidewalks for me.

my hand rests on the place where your sock had rollen down to slack around the ankle.
i'll find out real quick, where the story ends.
you've got
mr. lonesome. and the resin that oxidizes into
glue
that yellows in the UV damage
of each freckle
that might have
been.
ya?
ya.