And a shard of me hopes
That all I see
When I'm dead and buried

Are the eyes of
Everyone I've ever loved
Echoing forever against the blackness.

Did you know
That the waves of the ocean
Crash over themselves
In a shivering rush to marvel
At the glassy globes
Encased on either side
Of the bridge of your nose?

I know I said
I swore I wouldn't do anything
For you today,
But I figure this isn't breaking
Any sort of promise
(Pinkie related or not),
So I hope it's fine
If I call you mine
And ask:
"Will you be my Valentine?"

I suppose these must be
     My heartfelt lyrics
Trying to dance to the tune
     Of your animal spirits,

Because I checked out
     Our astral chart
And it told me we were
     Idea for love.

I'm trapped in a room,
     And so despertly
     I throw myself
Against the walls
     In a vain attempt
     To bleed out
This intoxication I stumble with,
     But I must be crazy,
For my walls are padded.

The patterns of
Glimmering light
Refracted in the bubble
Droplets dangling
     Off a glass pane,
A rough skirmish
     Of splintering wood
     Stained by age and
          The sea
Washing in still waves below,
Neither of which reflect
The brilliancy of
     White washed sheets
Baked in a vanilla scent
     And a tidal quiver
     Of fingers shaking
At the anticipation
That they may
Caress skin half silk
With patches of sand,
Warm in the sun
That looms behind
Gray fog over a pale
     Blue, seeping from
The cracks that
Scatter about a space
So infinitely random,

Lips bruised from
A night needing no moon
     To shine away
Dusk creeping up
     From pine-needled soil,
Kissing with bare
     Chests and thinking
     With flickering eyes
That so seemingly
Match that of a candle's
     Shadowy counterpart
In the enveloping
Elegance of a deary
Dance to the world
     Soaking wet,
While darling,
We lay amongst
     Boxes of sheets
In our chests
And days without
So much as the rest
Of the beating amp
Inside our ribs,
     Shaking our hair
Bedazzled with milky
     Morning twilight
Dispersed through an
     Array of sleeping giants,
Gently weeping away
The toxicity of daily hustle,
Cotton legs and
Arms made of satin rope,
     Wearing the indifferences
     In the fibers of pasts
     Evaporated and sprouting next spring,
Flower crowns and fireplaces,
     Murky waters and the shiver

As you trace your fingernail
     Across the peak of my collarbone.

If I dug out
A whole chunk
     Of my chest,

Would you build
     A shrine
               In me?