the world is full of girls and i am full of you

The ocean is hot tonight, but it’s still salty.
It doesn’t feel bad to cry when you can also drown.

I think it’s best you come sit on me.

That rabbit lives in the bushes. My car lives in the creek.
My middle finger lives right here. One day you’ll meet.
Yesterday I wanted to lay down in that tunnel,

let myself get dripped on till I sprouted moss. 
Mailboxes don’t come out of nowhere, do they?
I think it’s best we fall asleep on the soccer field.

whisper the word fishwife into her mouth

Taste the moss. Soft. Your leg is falling
asleep and people are starting to stare.

They gather on the bridge and you climb
farther down the banks of the creek, 
farther into her hipbones, 
farther into your overalls. 

At Ikea, in one of the tiny apartments,
you see a curly green hair on the duvet.

You stop in the kitchen to send a sext.
The sext is a pop-punk lyric that sounds like the creek. 

It sounds like the people on the bridge, 
who watch as you reach
farther and farther up her shirt.