1565 c/o J. Bradley

Long Lad

You wouldn't believe the smile I've rented to watch you walk down the dusty artery of that aisle. My hand starves, the acid of anticipation lapping at my palm; it awaits to gorge itself on your fingertips. I would paint the moon the shade of your eyes so you are always looking at me, so I may bow like a wick waiting for the matchhead of your lips.