Hey,
Do you remember that time when I got blackout-drunk and wrote poem after poem about just wanting to touch you, about fucking you, about how much I enjoy that you even exist for me to desire on the whole spectrum of like-to-lust-to-love?
Me either,
But I’ve got a hangover,
And a notebook full of desire.
Not that it’s enough.
I should probably keep it secret.
I have a tendency to over-indulge,
And I don’t remember writing any of this.
