1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“Well, if there is,” I speak low, approaching him as I study the items on
top of the sheets, “why didn’t he kick us out when we got here?”
Ten holds up his phone, looking around the room, while I skim over the
things on the bedside table and bed. There’s a watch on an old, black suede
cuff laying on top of a picture of, what looks like, nearly an identical watch.
There’s also a couple of paperbacks sitting on a pillow, an iPod with
headphones attached, and a notebook with a pen lying next to it. I pick up
the notebook and flip it over, seeing what looks like a man’s writing.
Anything goes when everyone knows
Where do you hide when their highs are your lows?
So much, so hard, so long, so tired,
Let them eat until you’re ground into nothing.
Don’t you worry your glossy little lips,
What they savor ‘ventually loses its flavor.
I wanna lick, while you still taste like you.
My chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and my thighs clench.
I wanna lick…
Damn. A cool sweat spreads down my back as a picture of lips
whispering those words against my ear hits me. I’ve never been much into
poetry, but I wouldn’t mind more from this guy.
A familiar feeling falls over me, though, as I study the tails of the y’s
and the sharp strokes of the s’s that look like little lightning bolts.
That’s weird.
But no, the paper is cluttered with writing over more writing and
scribbles and scratches. It’s a mess. The rest looks nothing like Misha’s