hurry my love!
we’re running late!
we have our own, reserved box, we see the end of the world.
after all
the best seats are
on stage.
what?
still not ready?
i want you to wear the poison ivy
that sprouts from your womb
and clings graciously on each pore of the
moist
after love
skin.
please!
on your breasts you could wear
my amber fingernails.