jump out and fuck off.
i can hear your italian loafers
(baked fresh)
teetering on the floor boards
(yawning disrepair)

boundaries
expand under the
eye of my button
nose belly.
go home.
grow up.
and save the phone card when
you realize i was wrong
shall i dip behind
hastily
selected explanations
designed to spark
your thoughts:
too wet
for matches
or sunscreen?

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