Love Drunk Love

I love the B's. Bee, 5b, 3b, 1b. Scratch me in graphite. Or pen. Forever. Sketchy or black black, washed in with a palm, touched with fingertip. With loving care, or smushed frustration. Come in through to me, and never far enough away to lose the signal. I mumble; and pens and pencils and words can never say in black relief, my bas heart beating, thump thump for you. Nothing does as I will it would, to tattoo my thoughts like ink on skin, to show it's more than just talk talk; and no laser can scrape it away. Gin and juice, blood and bile, wet and hard, soft like twin smiles, that won't wipe; wont is all we know, wont to banshee wail, and stone sleep. All my comma's will come for me, bang me in my dreams and pause, so I'll remember the the part, where the blade slips in between my ribs. Fucking them with your eyes, and eye fucking, are not the same.