I was thinking on your effervescence in the shower, attempting to reconcile the whole hole that was ripped a while back, all frayed and tattered in my limbic system. You kept me from getting sick, but you also kept me from getting well.
Your face was reflecting off of all the drops falling down my skin, so delicately detailed that I turned around frequently, hoping that you would be standing behind me. It could've been a trick of the trade, but it sounded almost like your fake whistle was seeping through the water, through the pipes, through the walls that Jesus himself paid for; then again, it could've been just the rusty waterline humming along with my own wishful thinking.
I'm not completely sure if you're aware of the way you kiss, so I'll break it down real slow in the essence of your own marketing rally, no techno-parade prompting my adequate stripping down to nothing at all.
You always kiss me hard enough to leave a bruise, but you never kiss me hard enough to take any part of me with you.
It feels the same as it did before, and I feel the same as I did yesterday. You, on the other hand, feel like a monsoon's wet dream, and all my lightning strikes can't begin to permeate into your enigmatic notions of the beauty of nature and the inconsistency of aesthetics. Examining your own clicking jaw, you watch as my thoughts spin circles around yours, but with only one out of every ten words I write meaning anything, your calculated molasses pace seems to be something worth aspiring to.
I don't think you'd like me if I didn't run as quick.
I don't think I'd like me either.
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