never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I’d find her there, my toothy turnkey, staring me in the face from behind the counter at the post office, her withered canines the ineffective tusks of the bulimic.
“Don’t mean to be forward,” I admitted to her, unrolling my signature harvest moon grin, an early crop gin grin, the grin of cigarette cartons one-click shopped off amazon, “but I think we might be a match.”
she rang up my stamps and then she left me, no, locked teeth with me; we spun together, freewheeling gyroscopes, into the musculature of love.
Just as I imagined it. You are my head-gear, Jon. You make me slurp my sibilants. Give it a spin, see if it can somehow factor in. You know there's always more than one way to say exactly what you mean to say.
ReplyDelete