TYPEWRiTERS

I don't know, man.
I just know that I want you. I want to hold you, feel your sweet breath in my neck, while you read what I am typing out on your suitemate's typewriter.
I want you to hold me, to feel my breath in the morning, when I wake you up with one of my sweetest kisses ever given out to anyone lucky enough to even get one.
They are rare.
Just like you. Don't you see?
You are rare, man.
Oh, I don't know.
I just know that I want this, whatever this is, this thing that we have, you and me - when we hold each other in the dark and whisper things that no one should ever say in the first place,
I want this chemical, toxic love to continue.

Love?

Oh man, I don't know.. You said it.
You said it first - those softly spoken words, coming from those moist lips, carried on a sweet breath at 4 in the morning.

In a room that was once orange.


I want you.
Now. Forever. - you and me.

Oh man, I don't know.