Sunday, October 25, 2020

The square root of Jax is Jax squared.

I desire to make love to you with the words in my mouth and the hands at the ends of my arms.
We can close our Nutella (New-tell-uh) eyes and pretend it’s a holiday or the day we were born.
Our birthdays mustn’t suffocate us otherwise what’s the point of coming out of the womb.

The first video you made for me I couldn’t help but stare at your breasts because they proved to me you were human and not just a daydream I dreamed up to stop the incessant screaming inside my head.
Your mystical countenance champions a whole other you that I’m not even sure you’re aware exists beneath a flurry of cotton candy web episodes.
You vanish back into the bottle like a genie or Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend.

I yearn to kiss your loins as you edit some grieving manuscript that you started writing before time had learned to speak in complete sentences.
I know this is neither what you wanted nor expected, but I must come clean because this poet only knows one way forward and that’s by putting both feet in his mouth while learning not to choke on crow feathers.
Our birthday suits call out to us like Salinger’s frozen peas because we’ve discovered our best selves mustn’t get in the way of our highball expectations or tiresome accusations.

Charles Cicirella

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