i would never ask and you may never tell, but do you ever see that dream of us in Mexico? it's okay. it's okay. it's ok. you don't have to answer. just hush now and say something sweet to me inside of your head. Tell me dear tell me do you still see us at the Louvre, in the rain? is it me standing there or is it someone else? how do his hands feel? how does his voice peal? does his fragrance waft away from his skin and tickle the ***** minora? does he wash his sheets every four or five weeks to keep the lonely facade in tact? does he live on a staple of beer and roast beast, an occasional moonshine when the mood strikes him just? does he torture himself senselessly, incessantly, bridging the neurons to find he's forgotten it all? ... does he love Cherry Coke? no. he isn't there with you is he? it's somebody else. somebody with yellow hair to his shoulders and bright shining blue eyes: the kind of eyes that tend to outshine you, and all the things you convinced us you've got going for you. the kind of eyes that seep charity. oh, is he there with you when you're snorkeling in the Maldives and you realize that you've gone just a bit too far underwater... you're very deep when you well know you shouldn't be. then tell me: what happens? you are found and swept, carried and rescued until BOOM! You breach the veneer and there are all your friends looking down at you, thinking: "thank the Lord our Savior for Titus Arnold Masters McMajor."
but love please love oh love, tell me who you really see. touch your lips and swear to me that it isn't the mediocre man who doesn't spring to your mind. both of you without a stitch, floating abreast and prone: