Cheltenham: CHS Facade edition with preface

#543
Yes, I say, you can have this sweat
being exhaled as when I loitered
nightly for a kiss, but could taste
a little phlegm; but you don’t hear.
I’m sad as it’s like a dream in which
we can’t touch. I strike in mad trance,
knife unsheathed, plunged down
the throat of your bed. Waves of sweat:
look, I say, you just got fucked but
not over; almost, at least, as though
we were eighteen again, dry humping—
bodies metaphor for a realer reality.
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