We made out in an elevator for seventy two hours straight and it took us until 48 hours in to realize that the elevator had broken down. I spoke orange juice and you spoke gasoline in a diet cola world and surprise, surprise we made napalm. We made intricate solar vibrations of trash can drums beating in your empty room of a womb. Feminine claw against masculine skin. Angel dust and devil’s food cake and grandstand bandstand orchestral chords of symphonic orgasms splayed out across the starry night paint smeared and transient as oceans in wind. You throat punched me in the heart. You brilliant manifesto of bitch. You beautiful garbage disposal of fantasia. You sickening amount of whiskey spins and vodka breath and then existential hangover. And then the hangover from the hangover. And then the awkward silence. And then we’re sitting on separate hills looking out at different reality mountains and then the elevator doors opened and we got out.
COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014