you are in the crowd with a young-looking girl. well, i dont see your face. i see your jacket, i look at your hands, i think about how i could pick you out from a lineup just by your hands alone. i watch those hands around her waist, touching her stomach, trying out inside her waistband while the band plays. her stomach looks flat, perfectly so, how does it feel beneath your fingers? How does she feel between them, i wonder, pearlescent and velvety, when you raise those thin fingers of yours to your mouth, how does she taste? more than i want you, i long to be you, carefree and beautiful, perfect hands resting around a perfect waist, i long to be perfect, just like you. more than i want you, i want her, i want to be perfect like you, tasting her, feeling her beneath my fingertips.this is no longer about you and i, nothing more than a flash in the pan, back when you were young like me but now i’m still young and you are far too old for this. i am too old, too, too old for the way that i pray to consume you, baby, baby, baby… i want to hold close to the rock faces inside you, heart to beating heart with my arms a-stretched, digging my calloused hands into the cracks until you open up and swallow me whole.i can see it so well, the walls of your bedroom around her, holding her just the same as me, but shining a light on someone more beautiful, more angelic, curly hair and perfectly parted lips, hollow ribcage alive with purpose, i imagine her because i cannot imagine me, when i see you and i see her and i see myself there is part of the picture missing. my face, my body, my name, i don’t dare think of you saying it again, i picture you disgusted though i know it isn’t true. anything you can do, i can do better, except when i don’t, i can’t, i’m not, you are in the crowd with a young-looking girl and you will be taking her home.
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