if you have a man bun and you don’t want to date me you have to cut it off. sorry I don’t make the rules
it’s not warm anymore and there are no
no syn-cacophonous string of bodies
stirring together. except the ones that
stumble past my window at
half past the thumbnail of the moon,
half past the shadow of wanting.
funny how every body becomes
anonymous. funny how my hips
are not mine,
except to be walked into,
stirred up as
a cavity for wanting.
a waiting hum,
my mouth a running
too eager in the
forgetting of joy.