What Do You Want?
It's that time again.
I'm on the tabs. Reminiscing amidst the demon witching hour. I can't sleep, I refuse to-- because I can, and Father's not home. Yet. Before the need for a posthaste scamper-- a random disposition. What I miss. Want, covet. I miss poker games with a straight face. And intentional hints of strip poker. "I don't care, you amaze me," followed by amplitude amounts of coffee. Polaroids. Prancing alone in strapped-up flats on curiously swanky marble floors. Shoe conquests. Quesadillas and sour cream. Recipes. Fading cooking skills that I previously owned. What I want: audible heart palpitations upon dream-shoes. Promises. Witnessing sunrise anew beneath lush blankets. Popcorns and summer movies (cue: Judd Apatow's new!). A trophy for the blue clad chaps; just because. A Marc by Marc Dr. Q tan carry-all. Or, say-- a Miu Miu blouson. The harlequin-print creation of art, even. Chignons. A pixie 'do. Ever-inviting pavlovas next to starch goods. Continuous runs of face glow. Masculine-inspired things. Surreptitious desires for a personal Gaspard Ulliel. And frolicking in between theater plays. Ralph Wiggum's brave wit on a Sunday. Game nights; with runs on the gun and "Fire in the hole!" lines. Late night capitulation to trans-fat at unchivalrous fast food chains. Dreamscape editorials by Ryan McGinley. Father's home. Goodnight.
[MUSIC] Eisley - Ten Cent Blues
