I like touching.

I’m as tactile as they come.

I don’t always understand or believe the things people say to me.

But touch. There’s a plea bargain you can’t argue with.

Even if only for the exact moment that its actually happening in, it is never a lie.

You can’t pretend to touch someone.

And what’s the point in sitting around looking like a guardian supplement photograph?

I want to know all of you. I’ve got no time for someone who won’t hold my hand while I am pissing by the side of a river, too drunk to be sure of my own bent knees.

I will dig around under the surface, mining your body’s bad excess with simiam diligence.

Skimming the skin, looking for evidence of a life well lived.

Licking the scar tissue, picking at a sinewy history. I heard a man say there’s no point hoping for a better past.

Chartering this new story. Gobbling the gossipy meat of it with glee. Chewing the gristle. Taking notes. I am an amateur cartographer.

It’s easier to talk this way, both facing the same way. Like how it’s easier to talk to your mam as a teenager when she is in the drivers seat and you’re in the passenger seat and you’re both looking at the road.

Tell me your name.

One day I will come home, rush in ruddy cheeked from the cold and tell you – someone asked if they could borrow my Kalashnikov, but I’ve thrown it in the lake!

There are all these rules, but there’s only a semi tone between B and C. Some people don’t know that.

The way I see things is mostly like this- Its all a bit heavy now with all this stuff weighing us down, but it’d be a shame if you chipped off before I’d even made you my amazing spaghetti meatballs.

They havn’t got any meat in.

Try to keep it cheerful, y’know.

 

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