Someone Has To Be You
It’s sad but it’s such, pairs are chucks earthed blue & green, we’re legged mercurial. The second sentence handlebars; the rain won’t even rain. I’m answering I don’t have to.
Sofa sound is your lover’s plush flickering. The second sentence breezes in, out of a purple v-neck. We’re the least cliché here wiggles up. One of us corner stores — it’s trumpets, a ticket for a scholarship hanging plants.
It’s seventy-nine degrees in my heart. Every line afterwards is decidedly less dramatic. My twenty-fifth is a front tire with no air; we make it blocks & back. I say these things silently to you too often to ask.
It’s three fives time — the window won’t detergent. In a parking lot there’s one one for us. It’s Super in two Sundays. It’s Valentine’s at a half age. The fifth pours one. We kiss hiccups, foreclose bookends.
It’s the first of a month, a moth, a rest; the second sentence swears itself. We kiss umbrellas, sound aisles. In this way we’re some or one or things.