Sunday morning, you're in Napoli?

Pick up the phone
And sing to me
Bout how much you
Miss me

Different versions we saw of moments spent together, difficult to together tether, we were like two girls chatting on the phone, wasting million minutes alone in ethereal vocal zones. Poison my metaphor, it’s a bacon sandwich anyhow. Now it’s staged exhibitions of leather, big box stores of doubt, the ginsu knife of doom, that’s what they called me in Grade 7. You walked into me, slapped me ’cross the face; the way we wandered into melody, talking softly over wind, whispering promisingly, then you crapped all over me, smote me with your divine buttocks; your god-awful farts were like an acid sandstorm.

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