Savage

She said you wanted to wrap the moon in a tortilla and I might have agreed if I believed in Mexican food. You told me it tasted like room temperature. Or like the coldness from behind the sun. No, I cannot see the sun from behind my rose-tinted glasses, but they’re the only ones I own. Dollar store hookers propose I join them for coffee after their shifts but I say no, the bitter beans of java never felt good to my tongue. But they wanted to philosophize. Kierkegaard never had as many fifties as the men in the station wagons lined up for their drive-through happy meals. I cannot help but stare at the coldness of your collarbone. It turns away with you behind it.