I’ve never been to LA and Hollywood lights were more beckoning to me than the ones in Times Square.
So like a moth to a flame I flew west.
It’s ironic, you went by the name of my demise too. A down low producer trying to make it.
Your flow was smooth, but our pace was fast.
Your voice was deep and I fell down down down. Hoping for a soft landing.
The only thing I wanted to reflect in the irides of my eyes were yours.
The things that you whispered in my ear were sweet, and your body felt sticky.
Love bloomed. Or so I thought…
The next morning I woke up in the coldest bed on July 24th.
You averted my gaze and told me this was all a mistake.
It wasn’t me… It was him… blah blah blah
How fucking cliché.
The voices in his head told him it was wrong, it was a sin.
And the voice that came out of my mouth told him go fuck yourself.