Sunday Afternoon
i like sitting beside the window feeling tortured by the torrential rain, wishing that it was
pounding at my surface, scratching away at my pores.
having bluegrass melodies sweeping up my ears, filling them with banjos and voices as
cavernous as the grand canyon
and watching you laying on the carpet, your legs crossed, rolling a cigarette as if you were
caressing skin,
being careful as if you were rolling my veins, controlling the blood flow to my heart,
making it swell to burst.
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