You, you, you, you, you

The end of it all means me and you and I don’t know. The end of it all is the desire for your breasts. The end of it all began in the living room floor. The beginning carries both our hearts. Maybe I write this to give you something to read. Maybe it is something beyond me and you. Maybe your eyes will look crazy at me and you and your perfect thing will look at me and think you and me are perfect, or not. Maybe I can kiss your belly, once more. Maybe once more, before I die.