My pelvis is a metric meter for the electrical impulses we radiate. Such a cacophony of stomach flutterbies and dry mouth sockets, so ignore these sweaty palms and imagine the moisture I retain (we can make it rain in a Logan Square bedroom at five in the morning). I want to wake up wherever you are, I don’t want these cheap grocery store vending machine rings anymore, I want to go to sleep without the hum of wondering whose bed you’re in however selfish that may be. I want to kiss your eyelids free of every– I want to stop talking like I know that words mean something. What means something is waiting room visits and your hand rotating between my shoulder blades when up-a-lung nights seem longer and when in the middle of fucking you stop and say you’re just glad to be here. I don’t need sleep.


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