I wolf whistle, lowly.
Two fingers pushed between parted lips, touching tongue.
And, I wonder…
Why do people need writing prompts?
Suggestions not needed.
Explicit requests enjoyed, nonetheless.
“You think I was talking about you?” he asks.
“It doesn’t matter. I heard you, anyhowl,” I say.
This, something, but, not just anything.
Head hazy open because it is heavy.
An attractive, not unwelcome, nuisance.
Needing to be handled. Straightened out.
Make hard to render malleable.
Remade and dripping.
Thumb it your mouth, moth.
Carry your hardwood.
I can carry the water.
I still thumb the pebble you once cast to me.