midnight poems.

I still believe in Tuesdays.

not every time we hang, or fuck, or eat, or talk, or watch, or drink, or be, is it gonna be the best time. sometimes it will have, very simply, been a time, and that’s gotta be the most we’re asking. it’s not the most we can give, and thank goodness; that’s how sometimes times are the best times, but that doesn’t happen if every time is so much time, because who can keep up with that.

even better than the perfect bite is The Last Perfect Bite. this is tried and true; you’ve experimented to know you like it best of all of the flavor combinations and profiles on the plate. this means you’ve fucked around a bit and gotten dirty and dipped and plunged and paired in unreasonable ways. you find yourself at the end, now, and you’ve saved the savoring, not for a single blissful interaction, but on the back of deep trial and error. bitch, get that bite.

sometimes I’ve said I’m ready to receive what I desire, and that was cute and very good practice. I know others meant it and I was aligned soulfully, I’m certain. I just.. didn’t.. because it was harder than I imagined. real talk: I have found being about the visions of self my imagination calls me into fairly.. overwhelming.. if I’m honest.

I’m saying: there’s something to be said about savoring what precious deliciousness we have. that’s my first note, a recurring daydream, in this—my 41st rotation.

let’s read some poems.

until next time xx