He’s singing
About the shortcuts
To my veins

You pass me a note folded into a cat’s cradle and stroke my chipped Milky Way nail polish as I accept it.

Man-on-man ass smack
Permissible flirtation

I ain’t no cracked shell
To cushion your fall.

Gotta full bosom
For bos’n to lay ’em down
His worries tonight

Picture a less frightened version of Lampwick in the donkey-morphing scene from Pinocchio.

I, too, have known the metallic clang of silver soup spoon on steel-wrapped bars.

I’m silently exclaiming it right now: “Bewp!”

Outwardly health-conscious girl secretly binge-eats Thin Mints while listening to Natalie Imbruglia. Relatable.

Hands all in
Don’t play with me

Should we skip straight to the nonvirginal verse
The alternate version
Hardcore perversion

Romance loved the plot
Boy meets girl — red herring role
Just to get her goat

Root your pain into me

I tell her to speak;
She commands me to listen.
You: “Shut your piehole!”

Frank, thank you for keeping your light attuned to a phosphorescent glow that lingers.

Slice it like a banana,
And split the slender bits.

Nuh-uh, baby,
I don’t wanna see that
You creepin’ up behind me
Like a slinky-dinky

Run races with scissors.
Take risks —
Not prisoners.

Otherwise known as…

Make frequent stops
At floor levels

He lets you know
When to shut up
And just start singing.
You lost your nascent wings;
Zemblanity’s still stinging.