VELVET

Perhaps it stems only from the fact that I've taken to writing in all capital letters, or maybe I'm becoming a hoarder of sentiment and relative confusion, but I am unusually sure of my excessive belief in the unbelievable and I'm recalling you in a manner that is way too fresh to be debatable.
I'd rather lay in velvet and let the spiders move across the sky without my involvement than dance with the hummingbirds, so obsessed with successful pollination. The flower to flower life never caught my eye, because I've been staring at the same sunflower blossom for months, years now, and waiting to become the sun that turns its head west.
Everybody, sans Dostoevsky, is west of the ice so I'm burning on the coast, trying to evaporate the Atlantic with my mind, watching the concrete rust unseasonably soon.
And though they still don't know, all patiently marketing my manipulation [eyes closed, tongue dancing and the like] I could not believe the signs that pointed me away from Waverley Place that Wednesday night. Rather, it must have been Thursday morning by then. They wanted me to think thin, but my mind is getting fatter to accommodate my physical wasting away; velvet on my skin can't keep my mind thin.
"It's all a metaphor for the homosexuality of the urban youth."
"What about the suburban youth?"
"Oh, never mind them. The gay ones skip town and the straight ones keep on praying."
And when he offered me another coffee, too closely entwined with his dirty fingers (too interested in pollination), I smiled. "No thanks, I skipped town."
Too much velvet pressed against my skin, and I'd rather touch her dirty palms {addicted to her fabric} and find reason for my ultimatum of confusion.
It makes no sense, the way I'm forcing myself deeper and deeper into their mad treasure hunt, but I find that I'm addicted to claustrophobia and the fact that I like being whatever everyone wants out of me.

I'm just so young and ____________________
                                  a. restless
                                  b. beautiful
                                  c. lucky
                                  d. fucked up
                                  e. fucking sorry
                                  f. all of the above

I'm sorry that I did it, but I'm really not sorry about the fact that I'd fuck her velvet all night and that I'd rather philosophize than economize.
The sun is setting on the square and I keep trying to make it into a triangular prism

but no such luck thus far.