The Sound Of No Hands Clapping

Because when I was little, I thought that this was all that there was, but now I think that this is all that. God, I'm so gay; and write in sound bytes, but. Sex makes me sane. Take it lightly? Never. I believe in: murder suicide, driving with my headlights on in the daytime for safety, and that there really is nothing to believe in. One day we're going to live in the south of France, I promise, I'm on it and every night we'll watch the stars because they will be out for us because we will never end this relationship with a simple handshake. No, we'll hold back and kiss slow and then I'll push you out and breathe you in and would you give all back to take you back when? I know its been so long since you felt the same. And I dream a lot and I would do it full time if the position was open and the benefits tenable because you glow and glow and melt and flow and I would do anything to be with you forever. You say dumb shit like "time heals all wounds, baby" and tell it to the ghosts of turn of the last century Galvestonians and I'll only ever bend and never break; when you turn me on and then turn on me. But I'll always take your surly, bratty ways in stride and navigate the labyrinth of the intersecting lines in the palm of my hands into the delicious violence of your lap. Because churning random hearts like ours get off on throwing consequence aside; and we were born to multiply. Now, my Dearest Death Professor Father Confessor, do us both a favor and close this window and power down this machine and, then in the dark, find your way to my bed and then my throat to choke.