I thought only of blue,
filling you,
percolating through all the tiny capillaries
of your lungs and settling in your chest cavity.
Then a rush of orange,
red,
and just the smallest intonation of indigo.
My fingers pursued the skin behind your ears,
virginal as it is,
and with it, the melody of your texture.
Your nails,
not yet the soft pads of your hands,
inquire,
simultaneously,
the fabric of my skirt.
Mutual occupation of space unearthed necessarily
And then parting.
Necessarily.

My form no longer belongs beneath your sheets, for the dark-haired girl with loud eyes and a quiet aptitude sleeps in my somnolent indentation.
Speak to me, Fair dreamer of immolation and dust, tell me the perils of your personhood, the power of your relentless humanity.
Speak to me, Quiet consumer of gasoline and smoke, teach me the solitude of obsession and the anger of precious feeling.
For while she sleeps, contemplating rapacious consumption of your splanchnic soul, you feel nothing but love,
as love lasts.