waiting for the ice cream man

i want to have conversation so good, it makes my toes curl.

i want to dirty dance deliriously with alliteration and run my fingers through the silent sibilants of words unsaid.
i want to curl up in accents; listening hard for the nuances in languages, in the lilts of voices and the drops in sounds. The simple ahs that reverberate through your soul, touching onto the deep down space that echoes with thoughts unfiltered.

I want to trade ideas and discuss politics or read Neruda out loud into the winter air. I want to meet someone and share philosophies the way we share cigarettes with strangers.

I want to have conversation so good, it makes your toes curl and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and infiltrates and ensnares your senses; conversation so scintillating that your soul will have no choice but to weep from the sheer ecstasy of.

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