My lover is experiencing reverse evolution.
Listen. Look. Desire is a house. Desire needs closed space. Desire runs out of doors or windows, or slats or pinpricks, it can’t fit under the sky, too large. Close the doors. Close the windows. As soon as you laugh from nerves or make a joke or say something just to say something or get all involved with the bushes, then you blow open a window in your house of desire and it can’t heat up as well. Cold draft comes in.
The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
I give boring people something to discuss over corn.
I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
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