sandwich from mars
You've something on your upper lip; i think it's a girl you picked up from downstairs. The one with the nice shoes and kindergarten chin. I stride past like the milky way, one foot chronically acylic, the other hooked like the apparatus of thieves. My whole body's tense because i have one of two options: i can backtrack into the two of you and your density of light, or i can move into my own thoughts and cling, like a barnacle, to the remaining half of your mouth. Both hurt so i move on because, at the end of everything, the world will consist of two people only.