Time Well Spent

I’m not entirely sure what this is about, other than how strange the language of intimacy can be.

Time Well Spent

I gaze ecyclopedically at her.

“I dig the Carpathian Basin
of your dirty mouth,” I say.

She sizes me up with hot eyes.

“Your tears are my blessed
Ob River,” she tells me through
teeth the size of Russian metaphors.

We hold each other in golden abeyance
and type letters on the flesh of our palms.

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