Pizza From The East Side Eaten In A Booth on The West Side.
I used to sleep naked but these days I wake up covered in you. When I slice strawberries in the morning and loose my edge blood bleeds and lips suck a wound that’s covered in salt and invisible fractions of you that was released in that fraction of a second between my thighs and your hand. And how your salty substance spreads and smears on the bed and my belly is how you’ve spread in my mind, thin but potent. A stale aftertaste, like beer, that coats the tongue and lingers in all the right ways. I can never have one without wanting one more. It’s like how I can’t have you once without wanting you one more time. And if tonight was the last night we enjoyed together it would be tough and rough but alright because I shared that piece of pizza I dreamt about sharing with you before the apocalypse; before we could never chew, or laugh or enjoy the simple company of a pint of beer and some innocent smiles knowing what we did the night before.