gallas13

and the thing about it the thing about the whole conversation was that it couldn't have lasted more than twenty or thirty minutes but still my knees were fucking knocking as if to say richter scale richter scale register this it's full it's full it's full and bright and the sun is out at nine pm just like in florida just like those lazy beach towns just like the last time this happened when the cement melted to silica and the sand slipped from between my toes was it weeks or months or even years that my axons were forced to fluttering crisis or was it just the chuckling humidity and the cheap wine i drank this evening i will try to hide myself in the varnish in the sweaty masses in the juniper berries i will try not to fawn but rest chin to fist like a bronzed rodin replica that she can muse on for a moment and then continue on through the parlor gallery past this cheap excuse of a coffee shop joke a formula a wincing tremulant equation complete with the silly simple prayer on the lips: i was a flower of the mountain yes when i put the rose in my hair like the andalusian girls used or shall i wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the moorish wall and i thought well as well him as another and then i asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would i yes to say yes my mountain flower and first i put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes i said yes will yes.