Sometimes at night my penis is the central mass of a circus tent
inside my flannel boxers. I hold her epistles up as if they are stainglass
negatives. She is two time zones away. The sun still bangs heavily over the
electric vernal that is the state of Washington.
And sometimes I rub my penis over her sentences.
Like waves in an ocean.
Like I am paddling back to her smile.
Like I am paddling back home.
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