The *** stood stars on end, so to, whispered, “play with me,” and in haste we fled. We explored, discovered, and devised something bright, half something else sinister, notarized – black roots pinned a pink-scorched Mohawk, and reciprocated, my wild “Mao-Mao,” or so she’d named the hair on my arms. The moon endured whilst we knifed each other with each and every gasp and sutured wounds left prior lovers. I’d only come across her name near the end, “Xiaolian,” though the tattoo ‘top her leg, told me, “Lola.” Come what mothers christen us innocent would be a poems in and of themselves, addendum, the delirium aged and the dance of neon atop our waterfall soaked bodies - epic.
Lonely nights in Liwan; though loneliness + loneliness = hallowed.