Right before the lull of the afternoon, I zone out complete like a punctured balloon and I catch myself catching myself sometimes, glassy glazed over eyes, rubbing your legs but it’s my own thighs, staring into the back of a digital tune, thinking about nothing other than a simulated you, putting documents into a scanning machine, listening to the whirr whirr whirring, imagining you sitting next to me and telling me absolutely everything, about who you are and who you want to be, about all of the little things that you love the most about me and I forget that other things beside this foray into an imagined day exist; I day dream constantly about exactly what I will have to do to get, the mother of all magic, just one more perfect polished kiss, off of your wild puckered padded lips, deep in thought -heat hovering over rubbed raw thighs and then whenever the midday melody starts to rise, the click of keyboard keys and the electric flicker dies, or it tries, pulling me back into focus, out of a liminoid trance, I’m pissed off as hell that I’ve lunched on, my own thoughts of you once again… damn, man.


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