We whistle in the middle of the sheets that she couldn't even dare to dream. Any of them, the "she's" that haunted my brain cavities. They, the "she's" opened their legs for you while you walked through my front door, went to the kitchen grabbed a fruit snack and rested your head upon my lap. And perhaps I love it because I'm not supposed to, this clenched fist, this luke warm, half gone beer, this promise and that promise that will never cease to be more than five or six slurred slowly spoken words. But our lips are magnets for their words, their tongues, the wetness you place on my nipple before you slide inside of me. It's only you that does it the right way, and god dammit do you know it. And it is only once and a while now that I feel the demon inside of you, inside of me, the one that lurks the streets of Seattle at night, invading the most innocent places, a pretentious king of thieves. It took me a while, and baby I'm sorry I didn't see that you were so sick, but I'm standing up straight now, willing to take bullet after pullet as long as you're the ocean I can fall into, back to the world, into you, into you, into you. We're off to get good and dirty, flying signs.
Seattle,
Portland,
San Fran,
Los Angeles,
Los Vegas,
Austin,
Omaha,
The east coast,
baby, baby, baby.
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