I know that whether you are or you’re not isn’t text book, nor will it be if my kids get school taught, but that’s decades off. By then, we won’t collect your chin shavings in zip-lock sandwich bags, post them for sale on eBay. Or get your address purely to pick over your bills and your old milk. If you drink milk. Your diet’s a lesser sought fact than it ought to be.
And I’ll replay any almost second of you kissing somebody, analyse the tilt, shake science of it. I’ll search for synonyms for the word ‘enter’ and the best I’ll get is penetration. You were thinking it, but it was blanketed by safe words like ‘vehicle’ and ‘toaster’.
I’ll explain every blurred album shot as multi-grain bread and, “I saw him, close up, and shadows were ornaments, Christmas tree hung on his cheekbones, and I rubbed ’til each wish was Amazon bought, until privacy was a fuckable luxury.” He is.