This poem is self-aware. 

I am trying to write every day but the prose doesn’t come out like I want it to. 
It hides in my laptop and won’t show its ugly face to anyone but me. 

Probably for the best. 

So I drag up this old thread where all my nasty warm thoughts collect like residue, like crumbs at the corner of my mouth.

Hey old friend, I knew you right away. 

Let’s stay all night let’s drive to another state let’s tell everyone or not tell anyone, really, anything. 

You feel good in my mouth and hands.

 It’s a fun game I’m always losing. 

I didn’t know you were keeping score when I stepped out on the ledge and smiled back. 

I don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? 

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