these words are
tripping off my tongue and through my fingers, which are
blistered because i’ve just picked up the guitar.
sam cooke croons over the stereo but it’s
your voice i hear, singing:
baby it’s you
d, f, and e.
this is a song so soulful i can feel it in my teeth.
i can taste it as it swirls around the back of my mouth and
drips gently down my throat into my stomach,
where it will settle and
fill me in a way that is
immeasurable in its pleasure
3 o’clock in the morning is just as lonely as
3 in the afternoon when you’re not around,
but i love it when i know we’re listening to the same sad songs.
they fill the distance between us until wednesday comes and i
find my way back into your arms;
the middle of the week has never smelled quite so sweet,
has never tasted quite so warm.