Jumping a red light we recite the words of Bukowski to make us stronger. Hitching up your skirt you watch my fevered reaction with glee and flash those blood-red gums of yours. Orgasms. Suburbia. Redheads into brunettes as young lovers become estranged in the time it takes to chew a nipple. Sometimes there’s milk, and at others, there’s the slightest touch of our hands as we pretend not knowing each other. If you give me the gun I’ll place it beneath his chin and blow his brains out and as you dance in the spray of blood and fragments of bone that hang suspended in thin air, I’ll take a photo so your beauty won’t fade like everything else. We are the perfect storm. We stand outside of time. As I’m puffing away on my cigarette and blowing smoke out the window you tell me how you finger yourself fantasising about Elizabeth Báthory. Slipping those very same fingers into my mouth one by one, you go ahead and place your lips against my neck before declaring that nothing will come between us, and no matter what will become of our mortal remains, we shall never be apart. When I first saw you I knew it was more than just lust. Don’t get me wrong, the image of your nude body flowering at my tongue kept me up all night, and the geometry of your smile left me in a daze for weeks, but there was something that passed back and forth between our hearts that spoke to me louder than anything I had ever heard. Eyeliner and freeways. Push-up bras and shattered glass that shimmers against your chin. If you let me cut you, I promise to be gentle. If you give yourself to my whims, I’ll do my best to turn these days into dreams.