If I thought of myself as an egg Fully able to turn over And continue frying, You would be the olive oil That tore my skin As I waited to hear your number And you quietly insisted on my request, Those six hairs defying the rest of your features. Until I reasoned I should return To a pdf manuscript on novels, knowing Quite eventually, That I shuffled In the steel-drum cacophony of sleep. Potassium will burn out —> Sulphur —> burns green. I want to be the belt of elastic Beneath your striped cotton waist, fastened Just above the goose-bumps that hold your pubic hair, Where motes gather your expired epidermis. Pericles defended against Xerxes —> gets exhilaration in return Yet, displaying a request for bowling On the New-York-City kiosk of your face Never makes it past the advertising team And I instead turn the page of my printout. Alex the Great —> proved self via horsemanship —> pressure Defines rulesmanship Live with me to be eighty And we’ll catch all the clouds We have yet named By their phylum, species, and order, And craft the precocious breath of a rare breeze So we may come to be like Summer greens & Their impermanent weather. I wish to bring you to contact On an exquisite quilt and easy murmurings To hide your figure with my voice And your Frida-Kahlo attitude. Alex —> politically overcomes to expand eastward —> creates city-states — and one would imagine this should motivate me To insist we go bowling, Yet when I have established That you will not show, here you walk With a green cardigan and charcoal hat That I have not seen, mildly swaybacked At the sandwich station As I clutch my cookie And paper cup Between thinning fingers. When the light came in to look through the morning Upon what should have been your face And my sheets Melting from your shoulders, There was only the foam of sugared remains In a speckled mug Of old Lipton tea.