Our pyroclastic remains litter our once wannabe house. The first great dream is always a bruising lie, leaving one feeling cornered.
Dipping our index and middle fingers into liniment jars, smearing balm like war paint, with an ash chaser. We ready for something smaller, a one bedroom apartment, apart.
Hot glueing them to my feet, ankle, calves, knees, thighs, buttocks, cock, stomach, chest, hands, forearms, wrists, biceps, neck, cheeks, ears, forehead. Hidden, I wait for prey. I wait for you.