"911, what's your emergency?"

taking the sixth night bus home
hoping I'd catch you on the last seat
penning poetic proses
about quixotic realities
all for you, lover boy //

I imagine you smell of fresh ground coffee and warm summer evenings
pretend you dance with me
to sultry tunes in my attic
all for you, golden boy //

violently aching to taste
sugared syllables from your supple lips
sipping on cherry vodka
riding euphoric highs
all for you, angel boy //

frenzied rendezvous in gauzy dresses
knuckles bruised with kisses
spilling rich vermillion
from broken teacups
all for you, sleepless boy //

"I think... I think I killed him..."