All I want to do is make love with my eyes,

to the pages of dictionaries.

Cum off of words with newfound meanings.

Slowly rise and climb climaxes as I lick the tip of my finger to turn the page.

The world stops spinning,

I’m lost in the translation,

caught in the rapture of finding the right words to fuck myself with.

The pretty ones,

the sweet nothings I chase after,

When I should be looking for the raw and real ones,

the ones that don’t hide themselves in multiple definitions,

they are what they mean, and nothing else.

And all along,

I’ve been steady looking for you,

For your native tongue,

that speaks the same language as me.

Reading the same page,

hoping for a different ending,

Yet, you never cease to surprise me.

Evermore sorely disappointed,

by your lack of clarification when you said all that you meant.

So here I sit, with the phonograph of remembrance,

replaying all the words you fucked me over with.