“I could kill you by sticking any one of 212 pressure points”
she whispered through a speedy drag and esurient nibble of livid durian her
silent militarily inept sidekick bootlegged through Thai customs.
That scant lil patch of thin red pubic hair she’d carved into a slightly askew copyright sign last week peeked out from her ripped boy shorts
as she pulled her scraped knees to her mosquito bites.
“I could also make you come, make your lungs deflate, inflate.
I could make your heart stop with the agony of hemorrhage
or the tight wet kiss of ecstasy, all with those dull meridians.”
In that I grew a few inches for her.
She admired her dimples and quicksilver eyes in my aviators.
She fed her razor edged bangs stale pumpernickel crotons and danced clumsily through life zinging gansta rap through the gap in her teeth.
That is until she made herself at home in the temporal wormholes of their occipital lobe;
Where gas-bar girls in smirched pajama pants and flip flops and not much else strayed through Newyorkian Februaries avenues of barbwire.
In the back of the rusted out hatchback,
I argued their diaphanous skin was "hypothermic blue,"
while she insisted “azure” more accurately described the shade...
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