The lights flicker for a moment of time to flit darkness away; veins settled the
wavering feeling of altered emotions suspended beneath my skin; as you
swiftly caressed my shivering fingers up to my fingertips—gnarly as
it may seem, but your skin will always be my favorite sense of touch.

Paint me these putrid colorless morale, mix them in your colorful palette.
Feel the thin bristles as they touch and fill empty pieces in me—a whole.
This empty hole—a ruins by destruction is my kind of Kingdom; bedazzled
by depression; crafted and molded by predicament nights; the creation of
poetry inside my tattered fabric; a vivid silhouette thought of you—touching
your lips to mine; your sweet embrace compressed my drifting confidence;
brought them back together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Beneath the vivid sepia-photographed quilt were arthritic hands holding
together; but I swear this photograph will never wither and will never be
forgotten by senility, I swear this will never wilt our lips and skin.
Therefore, I want you to touch my skin forever until this becomes another
story in my diary; another ink to dip my quill; and another voice to utter
its resonating images of the luminescent you held in your hands.