I Love Your Hands. Do You Have Five Bucks?

I love your hands. Do you have five bucks? Because I could really use two cigarettes. Or a young young son. I can say, Look out young young son. And clothes line his chest in a near collision. If you don't have any money your fingers will do. Because I don't have any cigarettes.

You should know that my teeth fell out last night like bodies falling onto the cold nobelium kitchen. So I can't hold your name in my mouth anymore. I've forgotten how your letters coaled, how the Ls tumbled round my tongue. But I stretched before I came. Really I did. Ask all the walls in this house. They will tell you stretching gave me long long arms. The kind to save my young young son with.

I've decided you're standing next to me in the picture bookmarked in García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. I run into the picture in the middle of my head. And after an awkward silence, a sideways hug and promises to yes go bumper cars sometime - it reminds me of the time I thought it was the awesomest thing to be standing next to a mango tree. And to you.

You said once lunges hurt your hands. I said once, So don't do lunges before you help me pick up my teeth. What we said when we said them made sense at the time. Now, we know true simple things. A frozen orange can kill you if its thrown at your head. My young young son will say, Awesomest awesomest, in front of the mirror or after a near collision. And maybe that's the same experience. So my advice, the next time you're walking along the highway, don't buy oranges from the fruit stand. They could be frozen.

I hope this letter gets to you because I get the feeling you spent the last five I asked for. I'd like to live things you breathe. Could you send me two more cigarettes? I'd like to love here alone with less sentences.