the pawn-night letter

you make me want to just get drunk and laugh at the color of the walls, wasting time looking at nothing drinking in the silence and letting it weigh, letting it weigh me down.

i want the doorknob sounds and midnight wakefulness, and yes, the three a.m.'s and saturday morning paper lovemaking, tomatoe juice or whatever the hell those rich people drink on morning when they can sip starbucks french roast from a french press and think that matters more than the look in your eyes when i want to put my fingers in you or on you.

how far can fingers stretch when they're not inside of you? i'm waiting now, on the dawn the night, maybe you'll show up and this whole fucking letter's value will bottom out or skyrocket and it'll be legendary on the stockmarket how i wanted you or how i whispered raunchy secrets in you breathless waiting ear across phone lines and maybe that will mean something when you're sad and falling, trying to fall asleep alone.

i want your arms, your smiles, the little goosebumps on pictures where the edge of your breast shows. i want to know when your asleep so i can be thinking about you.



2003-06-12 | 8:15 p.m.
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