My hair smells like you-- Old Spice and popcorn smudged lips. Hold the butter. I want grease dripping from your palms, a salt sea of foamy yellow. We reject kernels bob along unpopped, burnt, steamed to bursting refused the right to blossom.
The neighbors have a noisy truck spitting exhaust onto my rear window. Gray. Hazy. Ugly as the reason you're covered in glitter. You taste like gin and ginger, orange tea and cold chai latte, notebook paper in a dark coffeehouse. The elves are holding hands but your hand is on my *** and this movie's boring--wood pannelling in a split-level apartment above your father's bathtub.
Your mother wouldn't like me. She's a ***** anyway. You tell me she can't cook because she can't subtract. But you're no good at math either, lovely boy. Double your handprints on my ***. Curl your toes to the three-four swirl of my hips.