The night washing over our heaving, fleshy carcasses. Like two crayfish in a current.

So you are telling me.
We ****** in a whirlpool of sound. In a dilapidated guest room.

There. Moaning into you with my eyes, I ravenously endowed our fevers.
And you make it into pretty words.
Prettier than I could ever polish my sprawling lobster legs into sounding.

Who talks like that.