bubble tea in your belly, we roll together
on warm sheets, not washed in a while.
days like these, you find fun where you can
in times like these. laughter–‘please,’ she
said, so you do, or rather, I do. I did. we could
run away just me and you, go to New Zealand
or Canada: let’s do it, let’s become a Cole Porter song,
a Joni Mitchell jam. I haven’t had a case of you yet,
but a few bottles is enough to fuck me up. I’ll always be in the bar
and you should know that about me. at words pathetic
I’m so poetic, it’s grating, I’m sure.
tapioca is good in tea
but that’s about it, we both agree.