Hot tongue
It’s the baby brown glitter eyes for me that shine as Frank O’Hara recites another love torn poetry on the tape/ On my wall , there’s a picture of you smiling, the one I clicked when I told you I love the rush , motorcycles and leather jacketed guys/ you thought I was saying the truth/ some days I wish I was/ I would rather love someone like you/ the ones who are quiet and not quiet/ the ones who give their all, pining like a teenage baby, watching from afar because they think they aren’t enough to drop by and say hi/ they are the ones, the crazy ones in my dictionary, my match on earth or some other celestial place, the ones who look very much like you/ who would rather watch Ladybird with me in bed than get drunk on whiskeys just because they can/ the ones who'll suffer in their loneliness, let the anguish run wild in their journals and surrender their fantasy of being the one for Fiona Apple like girls/ only to see them smile from afar/ but let’s be honest, I probably won’t even speak without feeling you around me/ I’m dramatic like that and too far gone for guys like you/ or just you/ the 16 year old me has yet to realise that/ as O'Hara says, i would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world/ I think that says a lot about how far my obsession goes for slow love/ for you/ where I let go of what all others look for/ I'd rather live in a broken chair at home with you than the motel bars that never have the quiet ones gazing from the afar