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Tickle Monsters and Paint Splotches MAG
Our lips hum to the
Floating music
Hanging in the air and
Dried paint splotches
In the shape of slender fingers
Spread lovingly down the
Stripes of our backs and
These round belly buttons
Are jammed inconveniently
Into our flat stomachs
(Dude, we were born
With a random hole) and
My pink feet propped up
Against your green chest
And you're the Tickle Monster
And I'm slap-happy
And … and … and …
I'm glad you're in my life.
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