The Man in Blue

Photo by Eszter Biró on Unsplash

Really, why are you here?

Tall. Almost a monster. Waiting with busy work. In over your head. The fuselage of gig-heavy desperation, that last-ditch effort to keep it together, to snatch one final curtain call, your battery of secondhand fusion.

A hundred half-finished love stories run through my head, like the half-baked almost-been writer you shrug off when controlled compassion suits you.

Song dedications. So many out there. It’s fucking ridiculous…

how much I long to bake you oatmeal cookies, comb your unruly salt and pepper hair, dance real slow to Steely Dan’s 400th run of “Aja,” take a running leap from the dresser (her Pottery Barn special) to your California King Bed, 1,000 thread count, Egyptian cotton, feel you fuck me from behind until my organs bleed out

Every single time you come within 10 feet, is the night before Christmas. A hush falls over the room

Will you go… away?

Or will you invade my privacy break every rule say what you need to say

violate me please


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