Words whose inspiration I refuse to trace so I claim they are about no one: everyone writes about blood and maybe that's because it's deserved and maybe where there is desert there is no cliché. Everyone I've ever loved has peeled their lips a little too much and been left with blood running down to their chin. Sanguine seems the perfect word, now, but it's been charged with too much meaning and here I give her leave to drop to her knees screaming, 'I am the thick, deepness you've been searching for.' Blood-red a noun that augurs poorly for those whom take themselves too seriously and here I let it work. I should have recognized the portent provided by rivulets of multiple mediums but I was focused on trying to figure out how your eyes vacillate from my ****** to my amphetamine, and back again. I picked up some of your habits and have held them longer than I held you. Between the blood and tears dripping off my chin in a reality you thought you could never reconcile with words lay you, telling me, woven in secrecy between gasps, that everything has fallen into place. There's a metaphor in there somewhere about how nature's strongest shape is the triangle and the two of us could never stand up to the weights slowly placed on us. I'm not yet confident enough to flesh out the metaphor because all I was ever comfortable with was your flesh and I've yet to deduce the other points of the triangle, but at least I now know what they're not. Everyone before tasted like practice and I realize that's what you thought of me. I slipped truth under your door while you slept and years later I think about your morning before you opened my letter and worked through the ink stains shifted by rain & tears, but mostly rain, I promise.