the pragamatism of touch

[Pic by Eugene Buzuk]


I thought of you
now and I
touched myself.
Placed my hand
down there
and breathed in and out,
my other hand
pushing against
my skin even more
I pressed it in
and out.
the sounds so hollow,
my stomach,
emptied of food,
bathed in Mallox.

If only you really knew
how poetic I really am...

I thought of you and I
touched myself.
Back strategically
bent, great architect,
lips gently
bitten, sensual whore,
eyes that roll like
dice, the bet I made:
if I couldn't get a model one
like you.
So I did, touched both of
my hands: high-five to me.

If only you really knew
how poetic I really am...

I touch myself even when I
don't think of you.
your tongue
right past my
iPod playlist.
Speak right
through me,
speak right
through me.
You said you
can't believe
a word I say

If only you really knew
how poetic I really am...

I touch myself
in the subway while
the undying lines
shuffle
songs
that remind me
of how I am
touching myself
in the subway because
you barely touch me.

If only you really knew
how poetic you really are...