She Gets the Lotion Again

She tastes like summer electricity but she sticks like sticky-tacky. I flip through her white little slices of book pages, cleaned with juice from fruits and she’s like a drug from the sky, don’t break the glass, honey, don’t break it. You’re cold as stone and you’re heavy as a slot machine, looking at me with those unrolling little eyes of yours, chances, sevens, bananas, bars. I love you, my art, I love your dangling little fingertips that haven’t changed since I dreamt of you as a baby, when you didn’t scream as loud. I want to tear through you like a cave full of hungry black corners, pumping birds and heart shaped balloons. I want you to hold your head in your hand and I want you to keep your mouth open all the time, your jaw hanging from your perfect, petite face, I love you so much. Your broken, white teeth, that are chipped like small animals on trees, over flowers and under leaves, I love you, I love you like yellow skin wrapped around pink muscle that feels like honey comb. I love you so much, love me.