Tuesdays

 

Babe, you don’t want some
Elliott Smith moping ’round your bed,
and you don’t want no birds nest built
up in your hair, on your head where
it should be primped, pruned,
fair.
And don’t you dare tell me
I’m cute, and you care enough
to cry.
So good riddance and
goodbye to all your space-age
space-outs, Pokemon,
make-outs under the stars
and biking as far as I do to see
that dazzle in your eye as I pull up
and we smile at each other.
I need no reason
to slice down the line
between us, except
that it’s treason and this feeling
that I’ll pass with the season
haunts my fickle eyes.
But for now I’ll kiss
and lick off the honey still left
on your neck, your thighs,
and I’ll still bury my mind
in your chest whilst spouting off
uncategorized thoughts
and lies.

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