text messages.
doldrums, days, about bugs
turn into
jokes about printers and the internet being down.
the season is another crush
that will go nowhere.
a massage builds a bridge,
claws a Friday afternoon.
her New Jersey voice
is somehow music with muscle,
with taste.
and I railed,
racing to the difference of the danger.
should we go outside?
should we make some love?
is she interested?
and as I sleep in pumpkin bread,
dreaming horny dreams,
I believe, because I gotta.
I believe, because I gotta.