Dearest You,
I know that you are trying to say something to me but with your lips wrapped so tightly around his cock, it’s hard to distinguish one sound from another, let alone make out the words. I want to grab you by your tiny larynx and whisper into your ear so many things but you are always so busy, busy with his cock. Remember when we were friends? No? Me either.
1…2…3…you and all your colloquial language, how am I to decipher these things? Just be quiet and listen to me: I knew of you since the beginning, auburn stranger, onyx porcelain skin, sharing lifelines. Do you feel so very special inside of your tarmac box? Your only aspirations were conceptualized by me; raven familiar, intoxicated warrior, octopode eggplant Oya. You don’t realize, but you need me to understand these good times.
I’ll tell you a story.
Once upon a time, my hair smelled of angel’s puke and I was happy living inside of a train to nowhere with a gun in my holster. This gun would sing to me at night while rubbing its long barrel against my backside until…ah, who cares.
Watching you. Watching you. I don’t think you ever expected me here, now. I was scoping you while you were scoping the spot. Just die already, I hate this piece–it’s forced. I’m off to drink PBR, eat leftover pad thai and listen to Biggie.
