Where's Waldouche?
Somewhere in this pic of a sno-cone cupcake candy corn melted twix bar of almond joy, I’ve carefully hidden a…
Oh who cares about that Waldouche.
I love you, blonde eros of blank stare and vague sense of confusion. I would tie crickets to a paper airplane and toss it over Macho Grande just for the chance to jump after it without a parachute and plummet to my likely death while pausing in mid-air to breathe a whiff of your perfume drifting on the breeze.
I would compose sonnets of free verse in Farsi if it meant I could Salman your Rushdies for a fortnight while fighting off Fezzik by sword, left-handed, near the pit of despair.
You are my snowflake, no one could ever stain. Come to me. Nuzzle me. Then yell at me when I inquire, innocently, if your best friend Shelly might just happen to be bi.
