Put my hands under warm water. I want the
face of your cat sweater meowing into my
back. You give sincerity to the phrase,
“Only if she’s five-three,” and shorty, we
mix a lot, like when I drink wine and
whatever it is I do when I drink wine, or like
[list of hot beverages], or like how I say
“That’s a nice Pinot,” even when my drink
is neither nice nor a Pinot. You are the
Academy Award Paul Giamatti deserves to
win, golden, and I want you all ways,
sideways, always mulled with spices from a
spice rack I don’t have but my mom has a
one so I can ask her for spices that burn our
noses, you and me smoking like bishops,
traveling Europe and fucking like Romans in
the second century A.D., unpronounceable
words hot in the backs of our throats.
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