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.
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 6:51 AM UTC
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.
A poet’s muse does it seems.
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