Post-turtle (Coitus Interruptus)

After all the aching ages, palpatations, popcorn, and anomalies, I will speak to you again.
Once our dreams meet for coffee and we are chased through the post-modern markets by a parade of turtles and an alienated tarantula.
After we stand and stare at garbage in the rain.
Once the dogs sniff us out.
You will speak to me and I will mouth the words as they are uttered. If only to confirm their shapes.
I will finally spit out my gum and your beard will grow a little larger.
We will speak of the subject not included here. You will ask of the subject of the object and I will objectify you. You will object and I will be subject to a flying object.
When we laugh our toenails will recede or cut themselves in our socks or lack thereof.
When we cry, the image of us crying will invade the sexual fantasies of every, currently fantasizing, pubescent boy.
When we burn our pants and run naked out of shot, Americans will salute us, Italians will kiss us and the French will smash their finest bottle in the street.
All we will want to do is laugh and fuck and die with white teeth.
And the point will be missed entirely.