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Once, I kissed this girl you know.
Sometimes I want to be debaucherous with you because there's this sort of primitive sensuality you have wrapped around your shoulders like a wet and winking shawl and I want to grab and claw and tear at it and smear it with dirt before the world ends. Before everything is glittering with atomic indecision and we have to sit on the discolored beach and make sand from sticks and glass from tsunamis that we can catch in a silvery mason jar just so we can barter with an amputee at the other end of beach. Sometimes I cry when I see burned or beaten children. Sometimes I cry when I read letters from dead soldiers. Sometimes I send off bottles into the ocean, stuffed with clean dirt and a marble or two. It might be 1957 and we might be afraid of spaceships and enamored with internal combustion engines. Sometimes I lie.
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