Nathaniel Rosenthalis
MACHOVILLE XXI
You pulled off your torso with the thumb and finger.
You looked like the construction of men in orange vests wiping their foreheads with the soft backs of gloves. You could get far, not ever being that material you’d come for.
Compare that inch you pinched to the superior packets of artificial sugar you wanted to be to him. Not to last forever. Not to be stored. Not to insist on your digestibility. Not to back the back of his tongue you pulled on, with your tongue, so the spaces widen between syllables. Not to work a caustic clause. Not to miss him and become him. Not to sweeten your increase. Not to confuse the backwaters you were coming from for all salinity.