Romanaccio by costantino toth

You’re responsible for hundreds of climaxes.

When people speak you and scale

your jaggeds up to achoo: reminder:

of how much you’re a kiss,

how much a kiss is licking shade

in smog August. The lovers

of temperate scenes who keep their tongues

clean of you don't trust

in the build—up. Forehead bop:

dolce isn’t dolce without the starters:

the dogs, the cracked

palasts, the awkward

fumes to sweat through

before reaching the river’s shore.

I got tired of all that kissing,

didn’t have what it takes. I climbed

back down to suburbs and AC.

To an immune system free

of jolts and shocks.