Touch: a contagion
Spread through me like a
sickness
And on one hand you were drunk when you said it
On the other hand, that doesn’t mean
It is more a truth
Or more a
Lie
I worry that you’ll never write a song about me,
that I might bleed ink
About the way you taste
lying
that I could track you
down by your scent.
Drunkenness, an excuse to be all over you
And maybe I just want to tell you all about
Molestation, metathought, evolution of culture
most especially about
Oxytocin,
the word I trace
into your skin
with my fingertips
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