The impure line of your 1950s body is all curves and no nonsense.
No holding back those valleys of flesh the pools of sweat lambent in your thighs with the reflections of a thousand firefly's eyes. No pain in that extra on your pelvis.
A few pounds more, is a few roses less, less bulllshit.
Sometimes your lips become chapped, caked by the dryness of conversation and the impropriety of self-consciousness and I like to kiss them, because mine are chapped, and i'm so self-conscious, so worried about that other couple in the corner.
When we are in the dark room of each other's arms, and I could kiss you but don't, or when I could grab your *** but won't, I keep my arms around your waist and pull you tight, warm, and close, just to taste the sourness of stale deodorant, washed away perfume, and your old milk breath, because you're gaining some weight and I want to savor this heat for licking away those lambent pools of sweat on your tiny back, grand piano waist, and the crack of your ***.
Ecstasy. Ecstasy. I'm losing it just thinking about Cosmo burning.