that was the year...

that was the year I used neapolitan ice cream for soap. mostly I smelled of strawberry
from a gun. straight. dangling into the head, ticket it as a chocolate
insomnia.
I grew a beard, or maybe it was like television and it grew me. either way, tasty. okay,
and none of it vanilla, except you with your camera eyes seeming so fast. so
slow. making their way each morning. a tri-color. a brick. a melting in the
unexpected tell me that you’ll never do.
sometimes when. or standing out in the rain of your resistance. when you get caught
trying to smell me from a distance. it’s then that I wonder if you know that
I know. cut or scooped. either way. on me.