"the history of an epoch is the history of its instruments"
- Albert Einstein



she leans against me
her flushed wet flesh soft against my back
knees and fingers thrilling as words
excite

"July"

she whispers
the dream weaves texts

she makes me bold
while breathing steam

A comic appearance

why should I doubt anything you whisper to me
all of your breath on my neck seems true like kisses from relatives
like what confusing touches mean like thinking of a means to an end

shut up she says


off stage I hear violins shuffling strings heroic strokes
like lips strumming after mornings that you claim
you forgot


good night whispers and insufficient promises
she touches your face and thinks she is
lost looking at your flesh go blank

mornings of consistency fail to inspire you to kiss
girls you have never met
xoxo

simply not relevant
anymore