Right . . .

so what to do when the wind makes tiny slits in your sweater while going downhill in the fall on a bicycle?
you can't even scratch at them.
when the kissing, the caressing, is so many scratches on a smoothed surface.

so there you were, cachete, an orb of perfection to smooth my mind into disruption.
the perfect nothingness floating in oblivion above.
and i, with my pursed lips and my mexican boots,
helpless but to retreat to tear over a note to you.