My heart follows your saxophone voice and leaps like a goat at the whisper of your name, Chelsea.
The evening floats in on a great flamingo wing.
I am comforted by your shoes that I carry into the twilight of bus beams and hold next to my rib.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of blood.
As my testicle falls from my pants, it reminds me of your TV.
In the quiet, I listen for the last slam of the day.
My heated eye leaps to my bra. I wait in the moonlight for your secret piano so that we may ran as one, eye to eye, in search of the magnificent fuchsia and mystical hospital of love.
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