"You are my coffee coffee cigarette," he tells me.
"So, I am killing you?"
He nods.

So I am killing him, I am.

Hands in his pocket like it's everybody's business but I know what he's doing,
I know what he's been touching.
You see;
he holds it underneath his lungchest, beneath his ribheart.
Because his middle name is Samson and he was bastard child.
Great lover, great bedder, great mightier his pen is.
And he knows this, too.
And he knows I know this, too.

"But it's the thought, right? You think, therefore you are, therefore I must be."
"Huh."
He nods, just nods.

He is killing me, he is.

And I'm all tight-lipped and straightjacket-faced,
hair blowing on his wind.
I've got my hands on the table and my liver in a box but you know,
I want to give it to him, I want to take him out.
Even though he doesn't know a song or a word about me;
he doesn't see me, really.
But he's a blind bastard. Oh, whatta sexy blind bastard.
And my middle name is Eve; I was first whorewoman.

"Dearest lover..." He's laughing before I begin or stopstart or find him.
New-in-town mammal, lost sealion jungle.

"Kiss me."

Because I was raised by animals. And he shrugged here, tugged there,
wanted to hug bare.

"Kiss me. Kiss me. Full on the mouth."

My Number 7 purple lipstick is on the inside of this plastic container.

And someone needs to capsize us;
we need to drown upside down in a body of water and his blind sexy bastard laughing.

"Bee-yoo-tee-full."
He's a siren who can't sing and we are not human being sweethearts,
we are killers.

"Baby, I'm done for. You got me, you got me."
He smiles like camera lights; cue rabid heartraping drums.

"You are my cigarette cigarette coffee," he tells me.
And there is blood beneath our flipflops.
It puddles.


A/N: This was written for the September 2010 Writing Challenge Contest in the Review Game forum. Check it out.