Your eyes are on my poem like a pair of underwear. I like your eyes on my poem like underwear. I take off your eyes and put them on the poem and push you into bed. If my book was a bed I’d take your eyes off and lay them on my poem. You touched my poem with your open eyes and said my poem made you want to dance naked. I was not wearing a yellow tunic. It was nighttime and all I could see were your eyes looking like laser beams. It was silly, us trying to get your eyes out of the dog’s mouth. My poem got dirty. It was summer and my poem was wet. Your eyes took my poem outside. My poem called me later and told me all about it. My poem said that he wants to fuck you over and over and over again. I wrote a poem about my poem so that I could feel like I was as sexy as my poem. Much later I masturbated. My poem was sexier than me. Your eyes and my poem. You’re probably in the subway right now, rubbing his leg with your tiny fingers.
