Your hands are an
Egon Schiele and
I'm sinking
dropping
  descending in-
   to pits of
   sharks,
   fits of blue,
   an ocean
    of veins meeting
    fingers touching
    webbing through
    the hues

     It's not like it's
     the first time, no,
     and if I'm lucky,
      it sure won't be
      the last,

         but you and your
             Schiele hands are
                wading through the depths
                  of me
                    to where
                                     I can't
                                         go
                                            back.