disco balls and strange nights.

and she’s lying there, naked, with her perfect ass, high as a kite for the first time and not sure how to handle it, and you didn’t fuck this time because five minutes after the clothes came off she was rambling on about all the layers all the layers all the layers, and you knew exactly what she meant because you remembered the first time you were high, so you don’t stress the whole “blue-balling-the-shit-out-of-a-homie-ain’t-cool” thing, and you wonder how you look to her now that she’s flying in a new dimension and you’re silhouetted by 1 AM’s lava lamp light, naked at your writing desk, foot against the wall, comfortable in your own skin, your own nakedness, writing this poem or whatever the fuck it is, and you wonder if she can possibly see this room, this moment, this night, this life as perfectly strange and sad as you do, and you wonder if she’ll sober up in a little while and give you that blowjob she promised with her eyes an hour ago, before the spinning took over and the frame-less mattress sailed away on clouds of paranoia and wonder.

Willie Watt.


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