The ones you danced into blind fumbling for an urgent exit in faded mini-skirts and tobacco coated pockets. All of the Roberts, Todds, Bryans, Scotts, Jasons, Davids… (and all the others your high tech brain has crashed out and deleted) Have all left open wounds in your soul gauged by the hollow fonts of your eyes.
But as I savor the many varied tastes of your existence, I can feel my insides frantically stitching and nursing your pubescent cuts and bruises, healing in seconds no lipstick stains in sight.
The answer to your question is “Yes, yes, I love you” Your soft mechanical hands, that at night soften like chocolate in the sunlight and melt into my thighs. Your beautiful tortured eyes, your laughter and the way you inhale your marlboro.
You swirl out of my anesthetic you turn the lens til your eyes are in focus and me, I’ve become your surgeon. The operation…your early womanhood successfully removed. You are a blank canvas, a cut jotter pad. I’ll re-write all over you I’ll scrawl my name with razor sharp arms your eyelashes bulging with years of mascara I’ll practice my handwriting on your mound of Venus and the folds of your labia; Magenta pink and bald.
You are my Frankenstein You’ll get top marks for the oral stage, the anal stage and all the other stages you no longer care to remember Because we hit the friendship stage once before…before time seperated us
With you, I’ll grow old and withered and our tree roots will be dangerously entwined with time we will become soil once again and make love amongst the worms “Yes” will always be my answer I will always be your host, your empty vessel; A place for you to store your memeories and tears.
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