Because the moon makes my skin glow
And my high cheek bones cast a nice shadow
On the rest of my face.
Your eyes glow, too. But brightly-
Not as pale as night.
The air smells of ice and mystery
And tastes of pure silver.
And your skin is like
The touch of grace from a god.
Scars are hidden,
Smiles are not.
And my other senses are allowed to run wild.

And, uh, do the boys mind when you kiss them with that thing on your lip?
I smiled, laughed.
Graceful with my mask.
Well, I haven't kissed a boy with it yet- but the girls dont mind.

It's my gypsy blood
That makes my soul restless,
old,
and fathomless
To my peers.
It just wants to traverse
The world
And speak in
Secrets.

I keep dreaming about sweet-ice
And her being in firmly
Pressed, clean as a whistle
Clothing.
Her insulin dispenser
Gone,
Like how logic goes
When we're together.
Beautiful,
As always.
And for some reason
I think about
The scars
And soft skin
That rests so sweetly
On those lovely bones.

There's something so soothing
About the tick of my pocket watch.
It reminds me of my grandfather
rotting in his grave
And the difference between
Feelings in the air.

My outlook on life
Is getting annoying,
Even for me.
It's so stupid to live in the past,
Or the moment.
I want to live somewhere
Silent
And sacred.