not what you think but a little smaller. you forgot to paint your t-shirt with any colors. it's something to marvel at in the day and to dread in the night, and fill with the lush scent of your iron perfume, like manufactured lilacs.
you dance for something temporary and lift yourself from dreamlessness to be touched by a crude ex-lover because he slipped thirty-five dollars beneath your door. and you don't know what to do, so you try only to love him again and learn to accept his dry humor.
but coffee is to dark, and juice is too light and your relationship is too formal and his touch is too soft and your moans are too loud and your *** is too slow and your eyes are too dry and your lips hurt and your toes cramp and you think about your mother and you forget to breathe.