I wish I was a poet.
We are going to tear up this city
and the Ganges. I am high
on your beautiful mouth.
Where are you from? It sounds
a lot like home.
Your guts are all over the floor.
I just had my first. It was great;
she was in and out.
I'm not just a story.
I'm glad I'm not the only person
who's ever been in love like that.
You were robbed. I feel ambushed.
I've only ever heard you read
love poetry.
Your last one, killing me softly.
Monday, June 27, 2011
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