time, love, and art--what illusory concepts
undefinable and immutable
we meld, over and over again, the borders of our bodies becoming unclear in defiance of the defined space we transiently occupy. teenage rebellion.
A most primal ritual, mother to a sentiment most sophisticated--
the bites you left on my neck lasted longer than your interest, which faded with the early sun like a dark cliche embedded in my skin.
How curious it is to feel time, evade love, and be art--
how bitter to know the hollowness of each one, a lesson imparted by the weight of their meaninglessness.