You’re wearing his snapback. You’re wearing his snapback (and you would never know). Your nose is eighteen. He carries pocket cash for goldfish. Things he’d never need. He is purity, purity. If he’s done wrong, nutmeg is on deck.

He will warble. You have never seen a smile like that: curdled cream clouds clot the blemishes. Wear his coat to your family dinner. No one knows. No one knows. You’d do this all day.

In his little world, he thinks eight persons are a hassle. At the market, No, I don’t eat Jack and Jill. I like snacking chocolate. There are eight-hundred persons, then. Then, eight-thousand.

Tributes to his scuba breath through buttermilk roll like slots through perverts’ phones. Basque. Red-rinse lips, too much strawberry for his age. It’s the bangs.

You chewed his gum a couple times. Enzymes beat blood hands down. Then, you wished you chewed the rest of him, too. This is when your wires sparked and fell wrong.

You’ll start with him and then add two more. Then, make one of them you, and you will do all the things you don’t know how to do in this life. Wear white. Before you were thinking, I bet he’s pure. No stealing, no cheating, no dirty dishes.








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