Pulpy, violet lips

Phone rings.
Unknown.
Subtitled introduction
of Him.
Deep, tuny
voice.
Alluring.
I pushed another button.
Inconsistent.
Makes him stand on toes.
Mr. Maybe.
Juicy.
So not for me,
so lipped.
He tells me how he'd do me
again.
I promenade about with
a need in my lungs,
holding the phone close
to my ear.
We chat about birds and bees,
honeycombed.
It's the magic circle
chapter,
sterile delusion.
It tasted syrupy today.
His brownness
roasting my shell.
Got me crispy
for his early morning crunch.
What happens when a girl
can't sleep?