Citrus

Our fingers flutter against one another, against skin, against your cigarettes and cards exchanged like tips. The concrete under my back weighs me down like a burnt memory, slows life like a god feigning ignorance in your eyes, makes me believe again that lovers aren’t always covered in false time. I could live for the moments of friction. Can I be burned by the morning on your teeth tomorrow? Can I write your name on every page in my esophagus like notes uncovered from plaster left by previous tenants before the fire? Will you let me enfold you like an exhalation from the chorus, keep you up all night with the force of my pulse at these pressure points, stop traffic with these goals so imaginable and tangible, literary classics all notated and sun-bleached? Will you remember these things we said and inlaid too much meaning for casual greetings?

Do I make you scream like a lover too?

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