Fool

Tiny specks cloud my vision. It’s the possibility of moist, vacant dreams of horrifying sounds and beautiful voices. He bites onto those big, bruised, cigarette-abused lips and gives a grin-sly and inviting. I know I have to touch them to make sure they are real.

Being inches away sometimes is difficult. I need to smell him-repugnant and alcoholic in breath and adorable and crazy in the eyes. I feel like a fifteen year old knocked up future pop tart.

Don’t start laughing. I’m not clown enough to not cry.

...what the hell, never was a baritone till you stepped in...