Bring it in, this little shaking plight.
I'll own it, gladly.

Lay it down on these linen sheets,
It is this linen I shall wrap us in,
Forever.

Bring it near, this quaking fever.
I'll own it gladly.

I hear its little hum,
With it I'll strike in harmony,
Forever.

Bring it here, this hoarse, crackled voice.
I'll eat it gladly.

I taste your breath,
And swallow your parceled words.

I'll steal your tongue,
And covet your tender insides.

I'll weep,
I'll weep with your precious, precious, yearning,

Forever,
Gladly.

That which I pay for, dearly -
The mattress beneath me is imagined to be your chest.
You would cradle me, the way I feel cradled by your gaze.

That which I pay for, dearly -
The lack of holy fiber, which strain to kiss my bones.
It is these very bones - how they ache.
A deep burn, down to the charred marrow.

That which I pay for, dearly -
I pain to hear your voice.
I fear it is warped by the stale heat within my brain.
Its echoes vibrating within the damp cave of my memory -
The pitch now sharp, I suspect.
It rings, a ghostly bellow - to that I cling.

That which I pay for, dearly -
Draw the line in wet concrete.
I fill it with pitch black ink when dry.
It is a line I dare not cross.

This blue pool ripples after the sporadic thumps of my heart.
I bottle it.
Fill the blue glass with beads and pearls - an effort to make this ugly thing sightly.
But it is bottled, I swear.

That which I pay for, dearly.

When she was young, she liked the snow.
Perhaps too much.
However consistent, in powder or slush,
She liked the snow.

After she grew, she glared at the snow.
Perhaps too much.
However mature, in logic and love,
she glared at the snow.

What was bright is grey;
This terrible freeze mocks
and drags,
perhaps too much.

When she was young, mittens were lost.
Perhaps too much.
Little cold fingers, pink cheeks gleamed,
though mittens were lost.

After she grew, gloves were on tight.
Perhaps too much.
Slipping on ice and flushed in the face,
gloves were on tight.

Perhaps. Too much.

I was staring at the pompous Sun,
gleaming over water.
Its legs stretched out, one by one,
the desperate sea its fodder.

As I watched, I seemed to sense
a jealous sibling feeling.
Just east of this, the Moon just shone,
loneliness endearing.

"I'm sorry Moon," this I say,
I'm only facing west."
But his face, as I confessed,
I swear lost glow and jest,

I assured him of his beauty,
his loyal and regal air.
not 'sick and pale' with grief, once said,
but utter debonair.

A question's there, in the air,
the one I rose above;
"Then why on earth, little girl,
is the Sun the one you love?"

"That's incorrect, and so unfair,
dear Moon, for heaven's sake.
It's only if I turn my head,
I feel a dreadful ache."

The Moon still shone,
a quivering pool,
giant and yet so sad,
said no more
and looked ashore,
wishing what he had.

No more I looked,
no more I frowned,
enjoying the bright pink thrill.
How can I say,
"Sorry Moon,
we all prefer some frill."