Oh, to jog with suicide eyes,
uh, with a light dangling in front.
And to drop down into savage
gutters, uh, to drink in color.
To breathe fist-pounding
beltways. To double-click her
cheeks. Above all, just for
the sake of double-clicking.
Oh, bashed eyes? Oh, based on?
Like, with a sitcom in front?
Based on his wiry frame,
his inexperience. This is, a,
um, guideline. The night’s
lips are sewn shut, with that,
who knows? It’s not, like, good
communication, or whatever.
Oh, no, no. Eyes! Their lids topped
or, shut, I guess. Their lashes
boiling the dark, trying out
words for the first time. Their
shapes, or the space around them.