CXXVIII.

I tried to write you something.
Right you something.
But nothing ever comes out right.
Nothing ever comes out as smooth as it does for you.
Your words roll off of your tongue and into your lap where you can take your time assembling them like the pieces of the puzzle.
My words come like vomit, like trash, just like everything that comes out of my mouth.
It's quick, and it's ugly, and it's over.
Your words, whatever they were, whatever these letters mean to you...
I don't know why I'm writing this and it is unlike me to do so.
I'm so vain and you, you try to catch onto whatever the new addiction is
I don't even know anymore, I was only ever addicted to the feeling of your hips.
To the movement of your lips, to the whispers in my mouth.