Can You Draw Me?

"Oh, a million things come thrusting forth like fireworks and then, oh ouchie, sucked right back in, like a house devastated by a tornado, but in instant "let's see that again!" replay," replied my mind to your mind's command to "prove it." So, instead I make you sugar cookies and balmex myself with benzocaine and await your glorious reminder, of my womanhood, of my muscles, of my place. I'm more in love with you than ever, and holy god, is this what 30 feels like? Because in my twenties, I believed that those soundbytes about thirties and their Y/Y improvements were lies to keep me from hari kari-ing myself upon their approach. I never thought I'd live long, at least not this long, to really be happy and right as rain. No, no one else, not ever, not never ever, as ever, only you, only for you, because you are so beautifully real. "Too fancy," she says and I wholesale agree. "Now, can I put one on your face? You don't have one. You need one." Can't we ever disagree? It (comes and) goes with a quickness, and not just the days; all of it, everything. And just like I don't know how people decide what is right for their own lives, I don't know how to describe feeling ass-hungry, just that I am. Vroom vroom, you're here and I'm back, and I fucking long for the day, said in a whimpering decrescendo, with 'fuuuuckkkking' long and histrionically drawn out, for effect,

etc.

Here you come now, smiling.

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