I make you half-filled cups, in which the water barely soaks the bags I dip, and these are each nondescript flavours and you take deeper swigs than you’d need to if I brim-filled it, knew what I was doing, except I do, and the purposeful pour is control I execute over us like the lies which are list-worthy, committed to memory, in fact penetrable, confession ready, hell-takers, tie-breakers. In fact, if this is a tie, this one year, a little more, a TV time three-year fuck-up, then my rosary beads will fucking burn the scars on your feet until the on-top scars cover ones the other girls left, the girls who are women now because it’s so long since they got paid off with babies they didn’t have but did but you don’t know if they did but they did. You are so much older than me.
I watch the clip looped because, involved in it, when you’re inside of somebody’s mouth like this, the impact of the essence of the spectacle of it is unexperienceable, and the fumble-ability of your lips clicking and the lunch you taste on his teeth, food caught in, isn’t the viewers’ angle. Ultimately, is it better to spectate this sort of event, activities close-up and skin under?
He comes back and this happens in real life too but I can’t state enough the awkwardness of a break up reunion in the middle of a people-laden street in a town in which you know everybody. Unless you’re an attention seeker, and something says Toby is, a statement maker, you’d want a kitchen sit down, a cup of coffee pepping to be ready for a replay of kisses you could almost forget except in rollercoaster dreams in which the movement is a well wrought seasickness, a sleep-talk or walker committed to the reality they’re tricked into. And Toby’s a trick. A come back trick. And in real life he’d have news like, “Pregnant,” and, “Girls,” and, “Dating,” and, “Prison.”