Why Beg the Sun For Butter

Scarce the commute of discourse between our towns, the dialogue of ripened vocabularies; poking, peaking, & miseries from broken vows. With company, who will break the bones of silence so our turnaround can make a cocktail for me to drink after what we did to our poor selves? Say something, so you can punch me hard in the gut. Be one with me, sleep inside, warn yourself, not your usual eight inches apart on a sleigh bed with no bells ringing in your disregard. Something told me if I pursue, you'll be face-first on the floor, then up and gone. I believe it is better if they can tell the next guests it is whiskey on their bed cloth, but they will know the difference. If they are drunks, her blackened eyes can feel the hurting in my stomach, his wicked hands are more like what I want; the punching, something zealous in my gut.