It’s like a cookbook
But I never make the recipes
I just imagine how good the food might taste
Melons and pears make the sweetest fruit salad
She looks like pie
I stroke my ego
Everything is urgent now
I come to pass
Losing the fantasy
I’m done
Desire met need
This means nothing
A throwaway tissue gesture
A lonely self serving act
I please my self
I think I’m going blind
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem