it’s dark at last, 7pm, the night is as
young, as she’ll ever be,
in her dizzy dream of seventeen, living
like she’ll forget it in the morning, dreaming eyes open,
asking to be spoilt, her soft lips move back and forth, wet but
crisp like her hair, like the cold bumps
lying on her back, the wind
howls somewhere inside, it’s
dark, like she wanted, like when she
spoke words she doesn’t know,
the things are born in a park with no benches,
she dives into the black expanse, nestled in the grass by a tree with
good rest break facilities, lovers, for the
night, like something endless, because it never
started, two fumbling kids, reaching
under coats, unbuckling a belt, and switching
sides, tossed down as one in a strange distance
this is love, of
nothing but what half licked
her pure night to the moon

Dreamt of you

your blonde hair sweeps across the piazza in a grin of folly, like everything
you show me is a little game as if I haven’t made you up, in my head, as if
I didn’t make you in my dreams, you’re smug, like
you across the room in a white shirt and tank is sharper, and more defined,
I made you too pretty for that to be so, so let yourself be mine for the night,
we’ll traipse Italy together, all of it, in a flick of seven hours across my screen,
and then we’ll have a little left behind to get souvenirs, between the alarm
clock and my toothbrush reflection



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