My ship sinks into that
Fucked up grey couch
(Yes, the one we usually make out on
It’s imbedded with cat hair and
Scratched up, but you never seem to notice
And yes, my mind is in the gutter
And, no, I will not return to the street, I like it down here)

And I think about how pathetic it is
That I’m reading the Communist Manifesto
(4th time, HELL YES KARL MARX)
And listening to Radiohead
Non-stop 6 albums
(Thom Yorke and I are
emo kids together, don’t ask)

AND FUCK!
You looked fucking amazing and shit
If it were the middle ages (fuck yeah, it’s not)
You’d be considered royalty
Mostly because you aren’t
Covered in shit
But you look pretty damn good too

I feel like writing a sonnet on your
Bedroom window
In grease pencil
But I never understood iambic pentameter
And I don’t have a grease pencil
And I’d fuck it up
And ANd anD
It’d just end up as being
One
Word
Anyways
“Yarn”
And you’d laugh at it and not
Be confused because
You get me.