jump start my sorrow because when you turn your fingers in me, my ignition alights in your hair
you hold me like you hold your breath when you try to touch your toes, it’s like this stretchy tension that still feels stiff inside
we’re lucky, i guess, when our eyelids flutter with the same intent or purpose, when the saxophone actually big bands our hands.
the summer wounds our ability to stay wrapped up in cocoons, and instead we sweat out succulent desire, or maybe it’s forced desire that acts and tastes succulent, i can’t tell any more, but is there really a difference?
i think about jumping you or you jumping me in train stations, maybe an alleyway or two. jack and the beanstalk just can’t take the magic anymore, but you can’t take the magic out of me.