It's yet another virginal autumn sliding through the core of my esophagus, the most bitter medication, and the healthiest to some "He" I've never met.
Let us all take a gander at the undersexed ice queen, turning his moans into a frostbitten cackle heard far past his grave crafted with the polarizing limestone of unintentional cynicism.
He sits at the bumper of your public transportation system, perfectly positioned in the middle, so he can play God, he jokes!
But it's because he loves people watching. People watching is not people knowing; people watching is not people loving.
Judgmental is a barrier same as those elementary PSAs about saying no to strangers, also known as creepy men with toupees in decades-old station wagons; these filthy humans, all know that man, all are his children, all his faithful followers, his filthy, faithful followers, no sensual thoughts will creep into my untouched oats this grimy morning!
I will never have dreams in warm Equator-creeping nights of making friction with their flesh, even the boy, the beautiful boy standing savagely on this public bus, making the waves pumping through this contraption that makes up my frame no longer stagnant, rabid with the saliva begging to drop to commemorate my loss for words and my panting need for action.
His body is eternally dripping with the juice of a hard man's labor luminous vibrance through the skin, the power of the Latin sun in the drops of salt running all the way down his body
and I feel myself recording his existence, no name needed, just his face and body in this rhythmic Orlando morning.