we’re making shadow puppets on whitewashed walls it’s ephemera, u say
a term i still can’t grasp at least not well enough to explain
u ask if i would rather have u or u & 10 million dollars
i say it would mean the same to me promise a tablecloth with scalloped edges [pink]
u say i know *u* don’t care abt that stuff & kinda lean back as if that settles matters
i’ve learned to anticipate ur ambition coming at me with the roar of an engine
like credit-worthiness most lies contain some truths
i do my best to get sucked in a sensation akin to running repeatedly into a bayonet
the click of the safety against ur soft cheek
