The words I love you come tumbling out of my mouth in an incantation the first time you mess with me, my face smashed against the cement floor of your dank and charming bachelor pad.
I like the way you smile, your face churning into dimples which are like cleft sticks abandoned on the highway.
I like you.
I prefer your summery spirit to languish into mine, a dime-a-dozen. Life is a battleground of festivities which threaten to dissolve.
With a kind of measured sadism whose roots continue to elude me, you promise to continue loving me, as I pause by the wind-smashed gallows.
Your dimples linger on.