lemonkid

I want to want.

I want to play chess by mail, to wear my old worn red leather jacket, to win pyrrhic victories, to wear scars like boy scout badges, to fuck around as Coltrane's Ascension plays on surround sound.

I want bespoke suits, shoes, glasses. I want the man to make the clothes that make the man. I want to find the pleasure in being worn, the tired giddiness of the weary. I want to revel in pleasures millimeters deep and get washed away on the rapids.

I want love to sting, I want the coils of a kangaroo leather whip wrapped around my arm, I want tattoos to mean something, I want an old woman to mistake my Sam Brown belt for suspenders, I want to be wildly overrated.

I want sunglasses after dark, dusty hip flasks filled with whisky, I want tall warm bottles of mescal, I want a contact high off of sake steam while cool rafts of sushi float down my gullet.

I want people to tingle when I speak, burn when I write, swoon when I leave.

I want to want none of these things.