if i could spend every day in waist-high shorts and red lipstick, i would.
i’d let my stockings slip down my legs and bunch at my knees, not take my eyeliner off, ever.
you’d follow me underneath one of those big old trees, the ones too thick to hug by yourself, and we’d fall and roll, wrapping ourselves up in elbows and thumbs.
i’d tell you i still hate whiskey.
you’d stick cigarette papers to my cheek.
pinecones stick into our thighs.
i would.