standing opaque in black stockings – searching for the kitchen floor – for what i don’t know.

months & months go on by. you first realized. and never did say.

my tongue twists you into cherry stem words.

are you decent. i’m a pervert who speaks in iambic pentameter.

i stand on tiptoes to reach you.
you own my hips with two hands.

i want to try out love. in this kitchen i can’t leave.

— in Brooklyn.