being on that pedestal must be a bitch.

you're

the viscious memory

of not-quite soaking clouds

and cold hands

feverishly pressed together

on a bus to brooklyn.

the

warmest thought

against my forehead

before i fall into dreams,

reminsicent of vodka blankets

and the uncontrollable vocabulary

of a hurricane philosopher.

we can talk as much as we want

or silence our ticker tape thoughts

but we end up in bed regardless.

i have a knack for one-liners

and a pocket full

of projections

that i toss like bread crumbs

to starving artists.

i know you're hungry

but you shouldn't have taken the bait.