I know you more than I thought. I was able to sit here and blend my thoughts into yours as if you were here, or as if we were the same person.  At this point, I could imagine your heart beating my heart, your bones moving under my skin, words lost under all instinct.  You are within me.

The cockroaches at last creep under the door.
Or maybe they have been here all along, and we have finally crept
into the world.

Before thought. After thought.
Tides roll on. Nails dug deep. Toes curl.  It's the end of the end.
Cities fall.  Footsteps retraced. Tides roll in.
Before thought. After thought.

Writers always write about the same things.  Here's to mangoes. A change of pace.  A new color.       New spacing.  
Bright yellow and a dash of green.
        Skin pulled tight in a grin.
    Fruit in the basket.
It's the home you always wanted.  The cherry on top?  The cat's in the bag.
The lights fade on the scene.  Writers always write the same things.

Colors rolling down like licks of sunshine over collarbones down spines reddening the tips of fingers and lips kisses of strawberry jam bite your tongue and hold on tight to that last note like a sweet sweet harmony.

You are my dreams in red silk, peaches in the sunlight, matches lit in the dark or in the rain, something red like rubies, bathing in moonlight, or a cold glass of milk.  You're the uprooter, the fiddler, the fool and the carnivore, a lion let out of the ringmaster's trance, a final foot down at the amphetamine dance.  I say your name under covers, under smoke and under darkness, under my breath like it's trying to get out.  It can't. You know that. Kids playing games don't kiss like that.  Then tell me.  You figure it out. Don't kiss me like you mean it. Kiss me like it's the last one you'll ever get.  You've got the cards. I'll cut the deck. We've got all night, sweetheart.  What will you do with it?

One time, out in Paris, these two girls were *******. And they were ******* so loud that the neighbors heard. And it turned them on so their neighbors started *******. And their neighbors started *******. And all the world was *******. And so it was called a World of Love. A Galaxy of Love. A Universe of Love.

Straying to other lovers feels like rolling gleefully down a hillside
Laughter
***** knees
And then silence

The point when you've smoked the cigarette to the filter and the taste in your mouth is no longer righteous but *****.
And as much as you'd like it to, chocolate milk won't do it justice.
And the night is not graceful but sticky.
And all is well, and all is in the well
So it seems.

Forsaken--like love lost. Something about it regards things cast away or things we hold on dearly. It is the ******--the freeze frame in the heist of a burglary. The moment when all could be lost forever.

Two lovers at the end of the world. Always two lovers. Always a countdown or the candle about to burn out. On one side someone smokes menthols. On the other Marlboro lights.  It's a shoot out. Always questions like will you die for me? Will you bleed for me, baby?