No Fucking Way

Sunk, like a treasure, but rising, somehow, like a tide but faster, jet propulsion esophageal intrusion. Suddenly dumb, in the old-fashioned sense (the other was endemic) but said in my head: moonlit midnight fellatio is the best I've got. So, uh oh, I've gone and lost my pop-off valve. Can't you find those words lost on tongues and spit them on me and make me know? Better, write them and leave it for me between creaky slat one and broken slat two. Because, fuck a burden of proof: I think it is all a very clever cop. Now come cry unto me and don't you dare say anything else; I was talking to myself. And if you're waiting for that kairos eros, where he lays it all on the line? Well, take a fucking seat; and a nap. Because girls can tell when boys won't and all I really want is something made just for me, only for me, to serve as empirical evidence that I have been loved. But I lack the necessary x-factor to command that kind of emotion. Promises are words, only just, and they do not care enough to do your laundry or make you a panini.