by Christian Wacker

i need to stop thinking of you in terms of bright coffee and the surface; i need to begin thinking of you in terms of tongues on fire and time enough to watch the sun move across its lazy sky. i would like to take this time to proffer a formal and utterly sincere apology for all seven hundred seventy days, but they were preceded by a significant time of practice in regard to my ugly habits. will you see my desire to watch myself in your clear eyes as something that is important? i am cleaner when you hear me and when i look at you we are on a mountain in the middle of europe talking about how wonderful fresh buttermilk truly sounds. we can be a paradise, if you don’t mind.

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