we're in the woods. i'm laughing at the songs of the summer hurricanes and shoving drowned geraniums down my throat while you're teaching me to count in korean. as you point to infinity i notice you've got saturn's rings wrapped around your finger. i'm winding the key to your music box heart but the cosmic streams of supposed serenity sound a lot more like the naked nightmares resting on my pillow. i look into your eyes through your kaleidoscope glasses and realize: you're blind. the rainbows in your shattered spectacles begin to fade away as we enjoy 20 seconds of ambrosia and bacchanalia. the familiar dissonance of the chords in your voice only remind me that the symphonies of saturn left you broken.

how many melodies must i hum in consonance into your hippocampus to make you love me?