Franco Matticchio
I could throw her arms around his neck of the bottle and dancing in white stamping, spy hole in the pants to know swore at the hips tomorrow to hear your curses even lipstick. I could watch you give away what I had to come first, if only to know that price is the rest in the palm. I could feel his tongue black under the nails, the wood dark past time to scratch your door, to piss of contentment on your doormat, dog retriever. I could look at me or steal away with the back up of those who are not in a hurry, to support your vision as a test, low and dirty like your lips on my chest. I could spit in the dish where you eat, to see you grateful for my infidelity, and to hear you talk to them and say do not love him, but keeps her company. I could tell you you'll see, and bite to the neck while you were the love with your ass up, and being French. I could, yeah, I could. But I'm in love with me, because I had nothing to give.
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