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.